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>v 








AND OTHER STORIES 


By 

MARGARET R SEEBACH 

ir— 


WOMEN’S MISSIONARY SOCIETY 
THE UNITED LUTHERAN CHURCH IN AMERICA 
PHILADELPHIA, PA. 



YZn 

■S4S> 


COPYRIGHT 1924, BY 
THE WOMEN’S MISSIONARY SOCIETY 
OF 

THE UNITED LUTHERAN CHURCH 
IN AMERICA 






PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

SEP 15 M 




FOREWORD 


In all ages the world has followed the lure of “Once 
upon a time”. 

The Master Teacher of men began some of his greatest 
lessons with, 

“There was once a man—” 

“A certain ruler—” 

“He spake unto” them in parables. In other words he told 
them stories. Kate Douglas Wiggin said she would rather 
be the children’s story teller than the queen’s favorite or 
the king’s counsellor. 

Mrs. Seebach has told missionary stories to children 
and written missionary stories for children for many 
years, in an especially delightful way. 

Now she has gathered into this volume many of the 
stories that have delighted and interested the boys and 
girls who read Lutheran Womans Work and Everyland. 

“Give us a book of stories” has been the plea. “The 
Marigold Horse” is the charming answer. 

Katharine Scherer-Cronk. 


iii 













CONTENTS 


The Marigold Horse. 9 

The King Who Carried Stones. 15 

A Christmas Tree That Preached. .. 19 

Matsu's Looking Glass. 23 

The Book That Wouldn't Be Lost. 28 

The Price of a Fish. 33 

Taro and the Mikoshi. 37 

When the Dodo Walked. 41 

The Man Who Didn't Run Away From Dirt. .. 46 

Sadhu and the Cholera Goddess. 51 

Dogs' Books. 55 

Chang Li's Little Room. 59 

When Dastur Ate Sago. 64 

Missionary Mustard. 69 

Yusuf and the Apricot Tree. 75 

Broken Bowls. 80 

The Way of the Shining Face. 84 

The Breaking of the Stone God. 89 


V 



















VI 


CONTENTS 


The Book That Told the Truth. 94 

Uncle Sam's New Shoes. 99 

The Schooling of Malamoa. 103 

Kato and the Sin-bearer..;. 109 

The Wall Paper That Talked. 114 

The Shoes of Ling Li. 120 

The Viceroy's Visitors. 125 

Uncle Sen's Three Bags. 129 

How Christmas Came Back. 134 

When Ume San Cut Her Hair. 138 

The Book San Antonio Hid. 145 

The School That Was Adopted. 153 

Fighters of Fire. 159 

Moti's Mistake. 165 

The Christian Disease. 171 

The Ears of His Army. 176 

The Rising of the Star. 183 

The Day They Gave to God. 189 

The Crocodile That Went Hungry. 194 

By the Side of the Stream. 201 

When the Dates Were Ripe. 207 























CONTENTS vii 

On Marta's Wedding Day. 211 

The Good White Man . 216 

Mammy Lou's Medicine. 220 

The Children's Emperor. 224 

On the Outside of Christmas. 227 

Just Like a Missionary. 231 

The Caste of Seetamma. 238 

A Pie for Miss Helen. 243 

The Black Band. 247 

The Indians Aunt Sallie Saw. 252 

How Carmela Spent the Holidays. 258 

True Thomas. 263 

The Idol on the Wall. 267 


















THE MARIGOLD HORSE 


“What in the world is the matter in this village ?” in¬ 
quired the Doctor Sahib, checking the speed of his Ford 
on the outskirts of one of those little hamlets that are 
dotted all over the great country of India. “I never saw 
so many people moving about in it at once, or moving so 
fast.” 

“I think, Sahib,” said Chunder John, the doctor’s as¬ 
sistant, “there must be something very much wrong in 
this town, I hear women crying, and look! There goes 
Ratnam, the school teacher, running as fast as his legs can 
go!” 

“Come on!” said the doctor, giving the Ford more gas. 
“It looks as though we were needed in there.” 

Suddenly he swerved to the right and stopped the little 
car with a jerk beside the village well. A boy with his 
arms full of trailing green and gold was rushing toward 
the well. 

“What are you going to do with that stuff, Devadas?” 
he asked sharply. The boy looked up in alarm, and 
stopped with his armful half over the curb of the well. 

“Throw it into the well, Sahib!” he stammered. 

“Have you thrown any more down?” inquired the 
doctor sternly. 

“Some, Sahib,” said Devadas, beginning to shuffle his 
feet in the dust. 

“Well, stop it!” said the missionary doctor severely, 
dismounting from the Ford and peering into the well. “I 
should say there is some in there! You’ve put in enough to 
poison the water for the whole village, if somebody 

9 


10 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


doesn’t take it out. What madness has struck you, and 
what are the women screaming about ?” 

Devadas began to sniff as a crowd of excited men, 
women and children gathered about the well. 

“Here comes Ratnam,” said the doctor in relief. “Now 
we shall be able to talk sense. Ratnam,” he demanded, 
as the teacher approached, “what is all this disturbance 
about? Have the people of this village lost their minds?” 

“Alas, yes, Doctor Sahib,” said the panting Ratnam. 
“Since early dawn I have been going from house to house, 
trying to stop their madness, but they will not listen to me. 
It is well that you have come!” 

“Get your breath, man,” said the doctor, “and tell 
us what it is all about.” 

Before Ratnam could obey, the crowd which was now 
pushing and jostling about the well broke into speech. 

“The sickness, Doctor Sahib, the terrible new sickness!” 

“The gods are angry, as they were when the smallpox 
came!” 

“But this is a new kind of plague, Doctor Sahib; no* 
body ever saw its like before!” 

“Veeramma is sick, and Kanthamma, and Krupanan- 
dam’s son, and even your own cousin, Chunder John!” 

“Well, well,” said the doctor, making himself heard at 
last, “what has all this to do with throwing tons of mari¬ 
golds down the well ? Do you think you can cure the sick 
people by poisoning all the rest?” 

Again the hubbub broke out. 

“It is a new goddess this time, for the new disease; we 
do not know her name, but we call her the Flower God¬ 
dess.” 

“It is the goddess of the marigolds who is angry; we 
are quite sure of that.” 

“We are tearing up all the marigolds in the town and 
destroying them.” 


THE MARIGOLD HORSE 


11 


“Now, now, I can’t hear you all at once,” protested the 
doctor. “Ratnam, suppose you tell me about it, and all the 
rest keep quiet.” 

“You see, Doctor Sahib,” began the teacher, “there is 
a great and strange new sickness going about the villages.” 

“Yes, I know,” said the doctor. “Relapsing fever we 
call it for want of a better name. But go on.” 

“The people,” pursued Ratnam, “are always looking 
out for some god that is angry when such things happen, 
as you know, Sahib. They are still very ignorant,” he 
added apologetically. “I am not able to teach them very 
much at a time. So they got a notion from a man who 
came from the next village that the marigolds were to 
blame for the sickness, and that it was the Flower Goddess 
who was angry.” 

“But why in the world-” began the doctor; then the 

chorus broke out again. 

“The man said that in his village a man had been going 
through a field where marigolds grew, and that all of a 
sudden he fell down dead!” 

“A little girl, he said, picked some marigolds and was 
carrying them home. Somebody asked her for them, and 
she refused; when she got home, she too fell over dead! 

“At night the goddess comes like an old woman and 
knocks at the doors. If anyone is foolish enough to say 
‘Who is there?’ he gets the fever.” 

“We are going to clean all the marigolds out of the 
town; then the goddess will go away.” 

The doctor looked up and down the straggling village 
street. Sure enough, the houses were stripped bare of the 
marigolds that usually flaunted in every doorway or 
hung in garlands over the doors or about the people’s 
necks. He could scarcely imagine an Indian village with¬ 
out its marigolds; but torn and trampled earth, as well 
as the mass of yellow blossoms in the well, showed that 



12 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


the people were ready to sacrifice their beloved flowers 
to their dread of the sickness. 

“Foolish people!” he said, “how often must I tell you 
that sickness does not come from such things, but from 
dirt and bad food and polluted water ? The marigolds will 
do more harm if you leave them in the well than they 
could ever have done if you had let them grow. Have 
you torn them all up?” 

“Oh, no, Sahib, we had just begun!” 

“That’s better!” said the doctor. “Now, you fish them 
all out of this well, let them dry in the sun, and burn 
them if you will, but not another flower goes into this 
water! And show me where the sick ones are; I’ll attend 
to them. Why in the world, if you were sick, didn’t you 
send over to the hospital and get help?” 

Again the excitement broke loose, worse than ever. 

“The sickness has taken the Doctor Sahiba herself!” 

“They have closed the hospital and taken her to Guntur. 
She lay like death, and knew nobody.” 

“She had been in a village where the fever was very 
bad, trying to cure the people, and the goddess caught 
her!” 

“What are doctors, when the goddess is so angry ?” 

The doctor bit his lip. Things were getting serious, if 
the only doctor at the mission hospital in the neighboring 
city was stricken and had to be removed to the main 
hospital. The panic of the villagers was rising again, when 
Chunder John plucked him by the sleeve. 

“Doctor Sahib,” he whispered, drawing him aside, “give 
me permission to deal with these people, while you go to 
see the sick ones. I have a plan that will make them see 
their foolishness.” 

“They will mob you, John!” objected the doctor. “They 
are getting out of all reason. See, some of them are tearing 
off already to get more marigolds!” 


THE MARIGOLD HORSE 


13 


“No, Sahib, I know these people!” said Chunder John. 
“Are they not my own people ? I know how their thoughts 
go. Let me try, Doctor Sahib!” 

“All right, John!” said the doctor, hurrying off to find 
the sick. 

As he went, he heard Chunder John saying with de¬ 
cision, “You, Ratnam, stay by this well and let not another 
flower be thrown into it. Call your schoolboys—they will 
help you to keep the crowd away. Now, all of you go 
back to your houses and help me pull marigolds. In an 
hour I will show you a grand tamasha, and you will all 
laugh instead of howling like this, and the fever will go 
away from the village.” 

The town became almost as quiet as usual for the next 
hour, and the doctor had the pleasure of finding his pa¬ 
tients more frightened than seriously sick. As he was 
leaving the last house, he heard a noise of drums and 
various musical instruments. Then an odd procession 
came along. 

First came the pupils of the boys’ school, playing a large 
variety of tunes all at once. Then appeared Chunder John, 
leading the strangest object the doctor had ever seen. 

Out in a field near the village John had found an aged 
horse at his breakfast. He had taken all the remaining 
marigolds, which the people had gladly torn up for him, 
and garlanded the old horse with them from head to tail. 
Only the wise old white face, looking out of the mass of 
blossoms, told what kind of animal it was. The horse 
had evidently no fear of the marigolds, for he nipped off 
one and another as he was led along, munching them with 
visible pleasure. 

After him came the village people, smiling broadly. 
Their panic was over, and they were having a glorious 
time. 


14 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


As they met the doctor the parade broke into cries of 
explanation. 

“He has made a marigold horse!” 

“All the flowers are on the horse, and it will carry the 
curse away from our doors!” 

“Chunder John says that if the marigolds do not kill 
the horse, we must believe that they do not make the 
sickness. He has prayed to Yesu Christu, and says his 
God will keep us safe if we clean up our houses and pray 
to be kept from harm.” 

“He says his God is stronger than the Flower Goddess, 
and we need not be afraid of her!” 

Over this queer mixture of Christian and Hindu beliefs 
the doctor smiled to himself, but was much relieved at 
the consequences. As they left the town in the little Ford, 
he said to his helper, “You took a big chance, John, risking 
everything on that old bag of bones! He might have 
dropped over any minute, for all you knew!” 

Then he felt a sense of rebuke, as John looked at him 
in surprise. 

“But surely, Sahib, so great a God as ours could easily 
do so small a thing as to keep an old horse alive a little 
longer, to save a whole village! Had I not prayed?” 

—Courtesy of Evcrylatid. 


THE KING WHO CARRIED STONES 


“There, now, you will do very well until I come again,” 
said the missionary doctor, giving a final pat of friendly 
encouragement to the bandage he had just wound about 
his patient’s sore arm. He closed his medicine case with a 
click, handed a bit of sweet chocolate to the round-eyed 
child who had watched him from a corner, and plunged 
out of the dimness of the little native house into the 
brilliant sunshine of a cloudless morning in Abyssinia. 

Outside, in the shadow of a tree, waited the friend from 
America who had paused on his leisurely tour of the 
world to visit his old classmate in the African mission. 

“Through with your visits now?” inquired Mr. Archer, 
as the doctor burst out and took up his usual steady stride 
along the crooked street. 

“Are you tired?” inquired the doctor, checking his pace 
and looking around at his friend. 

“Not particularly,” said Mr. Archer. “It’s not exactly 
lively, sitting out here watching the shadows of the leaves 
flickering across the empty street. Where in the world are 
all the people this morning? Usually the streets are full 
of them; but since I’ve been waiting here I’ve seen only 
one old woman and a crippled boy.” 

“It does seem wonderfully quiet,” said the doctor, struck 
for the first time by the stillness. “I was too busy to notice 
it before, but I believe you’re right. Something must have 
taken the people out of the village. I recall now that in 
the houses I visited I saw nobody but my patients and the 
smallest children. 

“Well, if you’re not tired, and the walking isn’t too 
much for you, there’s one more place I ought to go. It’s 

15 


16 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


down along the river road, and you’ll at least have a 
change of scenery.” y j 

“Lead on!” said his friend, trying to match the doctor’s 
rapid pace. “If you can do it, I can. Perhaps we’ll see 
something alive down there. This deserted town is getting 
on my nerves.” 

Along the river road the walking was bad, and the two 
men were kept busy hunting the smoother places. 

“What abominable roads they have here!” said the vis¬ 
itor after skinning the toe of his shoe on a stone hidden in 
the dust. “I suppose you couldn’t get these people to do 
a day’s work at road making if you promised them a 
fortune.” 

“They are bad roads,” admitted the doctor, “but nothing 
now to what they will be in the rainy season. They are 
mended—poorly—once in a long while, but this one hasn’t 
been touched for years. It’s a good bit traveled, too; but 
the Abyssinian has tough soles and doesn’t seem to mind 
what he walks on as long as it is dry. When the rains 
come, though, this will be one big swamp, and anyone 
who tries to travel it will get stuck in the mud.” 

I hear a noise!” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Archer. “It 
sounds like a sort of singing.” 

“It is singing, or chanting, rather,” said the doctor lis¬ 
tening. “A lot of voices, too! They are coming nearer. I 
expect we’re going to find out the reason for our deserted 
village back yonder.” 

The chanting grew louder and louder. Around a turn in 
the road in front of the two men there soon appeared the 
bead of an irregular column of marching people. Men, 
women, and all the larger boys and girls of the village, 
and others from neighboring towns, all came trooping 
along the rough road, singing one of those weird chants 
that have been sung since the beginning of time by the 


THE KING WHO CARRIED STONES 17 

African on those rare occasions when he has been actually 
doing hard work. 

“Why, there must be thousands of them!” declared Mr. 
Archer, climbing on a large rock by the wayside to watch 
them pass. “Look! they’re all carrying stones, big and 
little. Who’s the man on horseback, in the middle of the 
crowd ?” 

“Upon my word!” exclaimed the doctor as the rider 
drew near. “Open your eyes wide, Archer! You’ll never 
see a sight like this again. Who do you think that man 
on horseback is?” 

“Some big chief, by the gold on him and his horse,” 
said his friend. 

“It’s Ras Tafari himself, Archer! The king! Do you 
hear ? The king of Abyssinia, of the longest royal line on 
earth, successor to Menelik, who claimed to be descended 
from the Queen of Sheba! Will you look at the big stone 
on his saddle-bow ? Hold on a minute!” 

He dashed out into the crowd and caught hold of a man, 
chattering with him vigorously for a few moments in the 
native tongue. 

“It’s true,” he said, coming back to his friend. “King 
Ras Tafari said to his counselors, ‘The roads in my 
kingdom are very bad; they must be mended/ They said 
to him, ‘Yes, your Majesty, but how are we going to get 
it done ?’ He said, ‘Mended they shall be, and before the 
rainy season begins!’ ‘Oh, sire,’ said they—or something 
like that—‘the people will never work hard enough to get 
them mended by that time!’ ‘Then I will have to do it 
myself,’ said Ras Tafari. 

“So here he is on his horse, showing his people how to 
make roads. He sent word about through all these villages 
that they were to be ready today to help him. He rode 
down with them to the river-bed, and with his own hands 


18 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


he helped to lift that big stone to his saddle. Every one 
of them, man, woman and child, was willing to do what 
the king did, of course.” 

“Good for him!” said Mr. Archer. “He's a real king, 
and there aren’t many of them in the world.” 

“It’s a wonderful thing for Abyssinia,” said the doctor, 
bowing deeply as Ras Tafari passed them with a genial 
nod. “He is teaching them not to be ashamed of honest 
work, and to labor all together for the public good. Not to 
mention,” he added with a smile as the last of the chanting 
procession swept by, “that we’ll have better roads, so that 
a missionary doctor can get to see his patients in all kinds 
of weather!” 


A CHRISTMAS TREE THAT PREACHED 


“If there were only a preacher here!” said Hiro To¬ 
yama to his young wife as they arranged the wares in 
their little shop. 

Hiro and his wife Etsu had just moved to a new part 
of the city, to set up their business. There was a good 
opening here for a store; but the great drawback, and one 
which had made them hesitate long before deciding to 
move, was that in all that section of the city there was not 
a Christian church. 

The Toyamas had both come of Christian families, and 
it was very hard for them to move so far from the church 
where all their friends worshiped, and where both of them 
had made their own pledges of loyalty to the Lord Jesus. 

“We can go back to our church on Sunday, even if it is 
a long way,” said Etsu hopefully. 

“Yes, we can go back, but that is not what I meant,” 
said her husband. “Think, Etsu! All around us here 
there are thousands of Japanese people who know nothing 
at all about Jesus. They could be taught, just as we and 
our parents have been; but where is the teacher or the 
preacher to tell them about Him? Just like them we should 
be, worshiping Buddha and the Shinto gods, if the mis¬ 
sionaries had not come to our part of the city. My heart 
aches for them.” 

“It is true,” said Etsu. “Yesterday I saw a Buddhist 
temple car go by, and all the people bowed down to it as 
it passed. I did not see one person on the street who did 
not bow. But what can we do? We are but two among so 
many!” 

“That is why I wished for a preacher to come here,” 
19 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


20 

said Hiro. ‘‘I talked to our preacher about it, but he said 
there was not money enough to send another man and 
start a mission here. The people in America must be very 
p 00r —poorer than we are in Japan, since they cannot send 
one more man for s;ach a great city as this! „ 

“No doubt they are poor since the Great War,” said 
the gentle Etsu. “You know we saw in the papers how 
many millions they paid to send their soldiers to fight. 
But, Hiro, we are Christians too; and this is our country, 
and these are our own people. Can we not do something 
ourselves to help them?” 

“I have been thinking very hard about that,” said Hiro. 
“One thing we will do that will be a witness to them that 
we worship the Christians’ God; we will always keep the 
store closed on Sunday.” 

“Of course,” said Etsu. “But how can we show them 
what we mean by it ? Could we start a little Sunday school 
for some of the children?” 

“We shall have to be very careful at first,” said Hiro, 
shaking his head. “If we seem to be trying to force our 
religion on anyone, they will not come near us, and the 
priests will tell them to drive us out. We must make it 
that they will come to us; then nobody can blame us if 
we tell them about our religion, when they come and ask 
us.” 

“How can we make them come?” mused Etsu. “Never 
mind, we will find a way.” 

The weeks went on, and the little store prospered. The 
modest, friendly young couple were winning favor among 
all their neighbors. But no one seemed interested about 
their religion. Even the fact that they closed the store 
and went away one day each week excited little comment. 

“They go to pay their respects to their honorable 
parents, who live in another part of the city,” was the way 


A CHRISTMAS TREE THAT PREACHED 


21 


the neighbors explained it. “They are certainly very good 
children.” 

One evening in December, when they had just come 
home after a Sunday among their friends, Etsu, who had 
been humming a Christmas carol, suddenly clapped her 
hands and cried out, 

“I have it, Hiro!” 

“Have what?” said her husband, trying to light the 
charcoal in the little brazier that warmed the room, and 
stopping to blow on his numb fingers. “It is surely cold 
tonight! What have you, Etsu ?” 

“The way to make people ask questions,” she said. 
“Look, Hiro! We have a beautiful shop window to show 
our goods, have we not? Well, why do we not make it 
show something for our Lord’s business, now that His 
birthday is coming soon?” 

“Tell me what you mean, Etsu,” said Hiro, beginning 
to be interested. 

“I mean this,” said Etsu. “We will get a little tree and 
trim it like the big one they have at church, with all colors 
of pretty balls and stars, and gold and silver tinsel. And 
we will light it with candles and put it in our shop win¬ 
dow ; and when anybody says, ‘Why do you light candles 
on the little tree ?’ we will say, ‘It is to celebrate the birth¬ 
day of the Lord Jesus/ Then they will say, ‘Who is He?’ 
and we can tell them the story!” 

“You are right, Etsu,” said Hiro. “That is a good 
thought. We will buy the balls and the tinsel and the can¬ 
dles tomorrow, and make the tree so bright that people 
cannot help seeing it. Let us get a few small Japanese 
Testaments, too; then if any seem interested we can give 
them one to read about it for themselves.” 

In a few days people began to stop at the little window 
to look at the Christmas tree, which glittered bravely all 
day in the sunlight and shone at night with many candles. 


22 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


At first it was the children who ventured in to ask what 
it meant, but more and more grown people began to come. 

To all of them Hiro and Etsu told simply the story of 
the Christ-child; and many of them went away thoughtful 
and earnest, with little Testaments in their hands. Hiro 
had to go back many times to the mission bookstore to get 
more copies. 

“That young Toyama I told you about, who wanted a 
preacher sent to his part of the city/’ wrote home the su¬ 
perintendent of the mission a few months later, “has dis¬ 
tributed so many Bibles, and has so many people asking 
to be taught, that we must certainly start a little chapel 
for them. Can’t you increase our budget at least enough 
to rent a room and put a Japanese evangelist there?” 

And the reply came back a little while later: 

“We will!” 


MATSU’S LOOKING GLASS 

“But you are not going, my son!” 

“Just this once, mother!” pleaded Matsu. “It will not 
hurt if I go just once. They are going to give gifts to all 
who come. Maybe I will get something nice.” 

“It is not the gift you are after, silly boy,” scolded Mrs. 
Kimura. “It is to hear the false teachers that you want 
to go to the Jesus-house!” 

“But, mother,” said the boy, “it is good teaching that 
they have at the Jesus-house. You were angry at me when 
I went, and would not listen to what I tried to tell you; 
but they told about Jesus who came from heaven to save 
people from their sins.” 

“From their sins!” said his mother, with a bitter laugh. 
“Can this Jesus save your father from getting drunk?” 

“Buddha cannot save him, at any rate,” answered Matsu 
boldly. “The priests tell us that if we perform acts of self- 
sacrifice our prayers will be answered. You know well 
what I did to win the favor of Buddha—how I went out 
on a winter day, when the snow was driving on the wind; 
stripped off my clothing, and jumped into the icy water 
of the river, thirteen times in succession! Did Buddha 
care that I was almost frozen to death? No! My father 
still drinks, though I prayed for his reformation every 
time I jumped in.” 

“You are only a boy,” said his mother, her tone soften¬ 
ing in spite of her sternness. “Flow should the Lord 
Buddha listen to you? Perhaps, if we had been able to 
raise enough money to get the priests at the temple to pray 
for us-” 

“Mother,” cried the boy, “the priests themselves drink, 
23 



24 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


and offer liquor to the gods! How can gods and priests 
who drink help a man to stop getting drunk?” 

‘‘Hush, wicked boy!” cried his mother angrily. “You 
will bring a pestilence on our household by talking thus 
about the gods. Go to your tasks, and speak no more of 
such foolishness.” ' 

“And I may not go to the festival at the Jesus-house?” 
asked Matsu wistfully. 

“No! And no! And again no!” screamed the angry 
woman. “If you go to the Jesus-house, today or ever 
again, you shall have the worst beating your father can 
give you, and you know that his hand is heavy. Let me 
hear no more about it!” 

Matsu went dejectedly out of the house. A whole year 
had passed since he had first attended the mission service. 
That had been a day they called Christmas, and they told 
him it was the birthday of that good Jesus whom they 
worshiped. The prayer of the missionary to his God, so 
simple and fervent, and so different from the wailings of 
the priests at the temple, gave Matsu a strange feeling in 
his heart. The hymns the missionary sang to the music of 
the little organ stirred him deeply also. But when he came 
home, full of delight, and told his parents where he had 
been, they reproved him severely, and forbade him ever 
to go again to hear the Jesus teaching. 

Now another Christmas time had come. Matsu had 
seen the mission-school pupils carrying flowers and ever¬ 
greens into the little chapel for decorations; and as he 
passed by he had heard them joyfully practicing their 
Christmas hymns. They called to him and asked him to 
come to the celebration, promising him that there would be 
gifts for all. 

“It means a beating if I go,” said Matsu to himself^ 
“but a beating will last only a few minutes, and the Jesus 
festival will last two whole hours. I think I will go; it 


MATSUOS LOOKING GLASS 


25 


will be worth the beating. I must hear more about Jesus 
who saves people.” 

So Matsu went to the Christmas entertainment. He 
heard the beautiful singing, which brought the tears of 
joy to his eyes. He heard the missionary pray and preach, 
and learned still more about the power of Jesus to save. 
Finally came the distribution of gifts. 

Each child was allowed to draw a package from a large 
pile as they marched by. When Matsu’s turn came he 
drew a small package, round and hard. Quickly he opened 
it, and his face fell when he saw only his own likeness 
looking back at him from the little mirror he was holding 
in his hand. 

“This is a girl’s gift,” he said. “What do I want of a 
looking-glass ?” 

“What is it, my boy?” said the Missionary, seeing 
Matsu approach him again. 

“Sir,” said the boy, bowing low, “I have brought back 
the honorable gift you kindly gave me. Perhaps some girl 
would be very glad to have it; but I am a boy and do not 
use such things.” 

“Well, well,” said the kind teacher, “we did make a 
mistake, didn’t we? What sort of a gift would you like 
in exchange?” 

“Please,” said Matsu, “I would like very much to have 
something to read—something about Jesus, of whom you 
told us.” 

“Good!” said the missionary, unusually pleased. He 
picked up a small leaflet printed in Japanese. It was an 
explanation of the verse, “God so loved the world.” 

“Here, my boy,” said the good man, with a friendly 
hand on Matsu’s shoulder, “is a better looking-glass for 
you! It is a mirror for the soul, and will show you not 
only your own heart, but the face of Jesus, the Saviour. 


26 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Read it carefully, and ask Him to help you understand 
it.” 

Matsu went home and took his beating like a man. 
When it was over he brought the precious leaflet and 
tried to read it aloud to his mother. She snatched it from 
his hands, tore it into bits and threw the pieces into the 
fire. 

Matsu went no more to the Jesus-house; but for many 
days and weeks those wonderful words rang in his ears. 
“God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten 
Son”—the teacher had said that meant Jesus. Often he 
tried to pray to this loving God, but felt that he needed 
to know much more about Him. 

Years passed by, and Matsu was sent, by great economy 
and sacrifice on the part of his mother, to school in the 
capital city of his province. Here he was free to go and 
listen to what he pleased; and one day he heard a preacher 
tell the story of the prodigal son. 

“It is the God who so loved the world that is the father 
in that story,” he said. “Oh, I must not care what my 
father says—I must tell him this story!” 

When he went home for his vacation to the little moun¬ 
tain village he insisted on telling his parents about Jesus, 
who was now his Master—for Matsu had become a 
Christian. They refused to listen, and treated him as if 
they thought him crazy. 

“Very well,” thought Matsu. “If I cannot tell them the 
gospel, I will try to live it here at home.” 

So he took up, with a smile, the heaviest and dirtiest 
work he could find to do about the house and the little 
shop. He answered his parents’ harsh words with pleasant 
ones; he did everything they asked of him with ready 
cheerfulness. He never spoke to them of Jesus, but now 
and then they heard the name upon his lips as he sang 
joyful hymns about his work. 


MATSUOS LOOKING GLASS 


27 


It was not long that they could hold out against this 
new teaching which had made their son so happy and 
helpful. He had presently the joy of taking both his 
parents to the Jesus-house, and of seeing them baptized. 
Then he began to lead his friends and fellow students to 
Jesus. 

There is much more of the story than we have room to 
tell—how Matsu went to a Christian college, where he 
worked his way by getting up at half-past three on winter 
mornings to deliver milk, barefooted and without an over¬ 
coat, and selling newspapers later in the day. On Sundays 
he conducted a Sunday school among the poor of the city, 
where he washed the children’s faces and combed the girls’ 
hair before he sat down with them to teach them about 
Jesus. 

At last he decided to come to America to study; and 
though his father called him foolish, he declared he would 
go if he had to swim the Pacific Ocean. It was his mother 
who gave all her little earnings and borrowed money to 
send her son to America. 

The sacrifice was well worth while; for Matsu is today 
Rev. Seimatsu Kimura, the great evangelist of Japan, who 
has preached to more than a million of his people, and won 
forty thousand of them to look for the face of Jesus in the 
looking-glass of God’s Word. 


THE BOOK THAT WOULDN’T BE LOST 

Maria Dolores was in dreadful trouble. The beads on 
her rosary clicked and clacked as she spun them through 
her busily praying fingers; but neither the “Our Fathers” 
nor the “Hail Marys” that she said brought her any new 
wisdom. What was she to do in this great difficulty ? 

It had been only a few weeks since the “Bible Man” 
had come for the first time into the little South American 
village where Maria Dolores lived. As soon as she saw 
him she knew he was a good man, for his face looked so 
kind and peaceful. Besides, he had patted Lolita and Tito 
on their glossy black heads, and told them such beautiful 
stories about a man called Iago, who dreamed about an¬ 
gels going up and down a ladder, and a little boy named 
Samuelito, who heard el Senor Dios talking to him in the 
night. The children had listened with all their ears and 
had jumped for joy when the man had offered to sell their 
mother a book that had both those stories in it, and many 
more. 

Maria Dolores was rather proud of being able to read. 
Very few women in her village could do so; but Maria 
had been a rich lady’s maid before Esteban had married 
her, and had learned to read from the governess who 
taught the lady’s children. 

Now they had come to live in this dirty little village, 
where there was work for Esteban on the building of the 
big brick plant near by, and where he hoped for steady 
work when the kilns were finished. Here she would 
forget all she ever knew, unless she could remember it by 
trying to teach Lolita and Tito. It might be all the teach¬ 
ing they would ever get, for there was no school in the 
village, and the big town was too far away to send them. 

28 


THE BOOK THAT WOULDN'T BE LOST 


29 


If Esteban had been at home Maria would probably 
not have bought the book; for he always laughed at the 
idea of anything to read. What was the use of it, any¬ 
way? Here was he, Esteban Jimenez, who had never 
learned to do more than write his own name; and he was 
making good money, and no need for any silly books! 
So Maria kept very quiet before him about her superior 
knowledge. 

Besides, he had been out of sorts lately, for the foreman 
at the plant had been very cross, and nobody knew when 
he might get discharged, if the boss happened to feel like 

it. 

“Oh, madrecita, buy us the book!” cried the children, 
dancing about; and Maria Dolores had gone to her little 
nest of savings and brought out the small sum the man 
asked. 

She found her memory even more rusty than she had 
feared, and it took a long while to spell out the stories. 
But she read on, finding even more wonderful stories 
than those the man had told. There were many about the 
holy Apostles, Pedro and Juan and Paolo, and most of all 
about the Lord Jesus Himself; though, strange to say, 
there was not much about our Lady of Sorrows, for whom 
she was named—Maria Dolores. 

This morning, after Lolita and Tito had helped her with 
her work—they were always willing to help now, so that 
madrecita would be sooner ready to read—a shadow fell 
across the page; and when they looked up, there was Don 
Carlos, the village priest, looking very tall and gloomy in 
his black robe, with a frown on his face. 

“What are you reading, my children ?” he asked. 

“A book, father, that I got from the man who was 
selling them in the village,” faltered Maria, suddenly 
feeling guilty without knowing why. 


30 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Don Carlos’ face grew so black that the children were 
frightened and began to cry. 

“Those books, foolish woman,” he said in an angry 
voice, “are very bad books, not fit for you to read. It was 
very wrong of you to buy one, and as long as it stays in 
your house, misfortune will hang over your heads.” 

“But, father,” said Maria in tears, “what shall I do? 
I did not know the book was bad, and I have bought it 
and read much of it to the children.” 

“Worse and worse!” exclaimed the priest. “This is 
what comes of teaching silly women to read! Burn the 
book this very day, and say your rosary fifty times every 
day for a week. I shall lay no heavier penance on you, be¬ 
cause you sinned in ignorance; but never do such a thing 
again unless you want your man to lose his job, your 
house to burn down, and your children die of fever!” 

He left them all sobbing in terror; but after he was 
gone Maria began to wonder what could be wrong about 
the book? Surely all the stories were good, and so many 
of them were about Jesus. Could she burn a book all 
printed through with His name and full of His words? 
All the while she told her beads she puzzled over this. 

“I cannot burn the book,” she said, “and I will not, no 

matter what Don Carlos says. I will keep it-” then 

she thought about the cross foreman, and Esteban’s fear 
of losing his job. Suppose something happened and he 
found out what she had done, and blamed her ? 

No, the book must go, but not into the fire. She would 
lose it, just drop it somewhere away from the house. Then 
nobody could scold her for not burning it, and' the curse 
would be removed from their roof. 

That afternoon when the children were asleep, their 
faces still streaked with the tears they had shed because 
they were to hear no more stories, Maria Dolores went for 



THE BOOK THAT WOULDN'T BE LOST 


31 


a walk beside the canal. When she came back, the small 
package she had started with was gone. 

“Never mind,” she said to the children. “I have read 
you the stories till you know most of them by heart. Maybe 
some day, when you are grown up, you can learn to read 
other stories out of other books. There must surely be 
some books that el Senor Dios will not punish people for 
reading.” 

About a week later Esteban came home looking much 
cheered. 

“The boss,” he told Maria, “is a different man the last 
three days. He hardly scolds at all, and today he let 
Pedro Nogales go home an hour earlier to his sick wife. 
When Pedro said he couldn't afford to lose the hour’s pay, 
the boss told him he would pay him for the full time; and 
he gave him a paper, to get a bottle of medicine for her 
from the doctor!” 

“What makes him different, do you think, Esteban?” 
asked Maria. 

“I don’t know,” said her husband. “But whenever he sits 
down he reads from a little book he carries in his pocket. 
It is a very poor-looking book, all stained and wrinkled 
as if it had been in the water, but he reads it and looks 
more pleasant all the time. If a book can make a bad boss 
kind like that, maybe it isn’t such a bad thing to know how 
to read.” 

Then Maria guessed what had happened. The little 
Bible had refused to be lost. She had thrown it into the 
canal, but the water had not drowned it. The canal ran 
down by a vineyard, which lay between it and the field 
where the clay was gathered for the bricks. There, 
sticking in the mud, it had caught the eye of the boss when 
he had walked over to inspect the field. All the rest had 
happened because he had begun to read the book and to 
follow its teachings. 


32 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“It was a good book, after all,” thought Maria in tri¬ 
umph. But she never told Esteban or Don Carlos. Only 
she and the children told each other all the stories they 
could remember, so that they would never forget them. 
And when the Bible man comes again, there is going to 
be another book bought out of Maria's savings, and she 
will not even try to lose it! 


THE PRICE OF A FISH 


Li Chang was not a pleasant person to look at, as he 
stood guard over his barrow of fish in the crowded 
Chinese market place. There was a scowl on his face as 
he watched the jostling throngs, and his thoughts were no 
sweeter than his looks. 

“The foreigners,” said Li Chang to himself, “have 
spoiled our country. They come in and throw our goods 
about and say they are not fit to buy. Then they make a 
bargain that sounds good, but when they have bought and 
gone we find out they have cheated us. They hire us to 
work for them, and then they say the work is not done 
right and will not pay us our wages. They laugh at us 
when we pray, they scold us when we work, they abuse 
us when we try to fight! China is no place for the Chinese 
any more!” 

While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he 
had noticed with impartial dislike a party of American 
tourists, a British officer, the agent of a German shipping 
firm, an Italian opera-singer and a Russian sailor, all 
passing in that jumble of nationalities which may be seen 
any day on streets of Hong Kong. All these white people, 
it seemed to him, were there for just one purpose—to 
spoil China for the Chinese. 

Then he saw that two foreign women had stopped by 
his barrow, and were looking at the fish. 

“These are the best we have seen,” said one of them in 
a crisp, pleasant tone that somehow made his scowl a little 
lighter. 

“But such a cross-looking dealer!” said the other in a 
whisper. “Come on, Mercy, let’s go back and get some of 
the others.” 


33 


34 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“But these are the largest and freshest,” persisted the 
first. “The others we saw were not nearly so good. Perhaps 
the poor man has a headache, standing here in the hot 
sunshine? I’m going to ask him how much his fish are, 
anyway.” 

It was clear that the pleasant lady did not know much 
Chinese. But Li Chang knew enough English not only to 
have caught the most of what she had said, but to sell her 
the largest and finest of his fish. He was so much sur¬ 
prised that anybody should care whether his head ached 
or not that he fumbled in a dazed way with the small 
coins as he counted out her change, and did not notice 
that he had given her two coins too much. 

Neither did the white lady notice it until she opened 
her purse at another stall farther down the street to pur¬ 
chase some cabbage. Then she counted her money all 
over, and started back again. 

“Where in the world are you going now, Mercy?” 
called her companion. 

“Just a minute, Edna!” she answered. “Wait there in 
the shade for me. I’ll be right back.” 

Li Chang was still more dazed to see the pleasant face 
beside his barrow again, and to receive the two coins, 
with explanations in broken Chinese, helped out by several 
English words. He looked from her to the coins in his 
hand, and from the coins back to her vanishing form as 
she hurried off again, and rubbed his eyes i# amazement. 
Who had ever heard of a foreigner, or anyone else for 
that matter, bringing back extra change? Now if she had 
come back to tell him he hadn’t given her enough, it 
would be perfectly natural; but to bring some back when 
he hadn’t even missed it—that was something nobody 
could believe. Yet there was the money in his hand! 

Old Cho, selling shrimps beside him, smiled as he 
watched his perplexity. Li turned and caught the smile. 


THE PRICE OF A FISH 


35 


“Father Cho,” he said, “tell me I am not having a 
dream. Did the foreign woman bring back this money, 
or not ? And why did she do it ?” 

“You do not dream, my friend,” said Cho, with smiles 
peeping from every wrinkle of his leathery old face. 

“Do you know her? Who is she?” inquired Li, for¬ 
getting his own scowl altogether. 

“She is the American teacher from the Jesus school 
for girls,” said the old man. 

“What made her do it?” insisted Li. 

“That is the Jesus way,” said old Cho very softly—so 
softly that Li had to bend over to catch his words through 
the noise of the market. 

“What?” said he. “Do you mean to tell me that the 
Jesus people will not cheat a Chinese? Would she come 
back through all the crowd to bring me two coins, because 
her Jesus-god told her to ?” 

“I do mean it, my son,” said Cho, and now his wrinkles 
did not laugh, but seemed rather to shine. “I have been 
to the Jesus-house myself, and I know what they teach. 
Yes, and they do it as well as teach it!” 

“It is too much to believe!” said Li Chang slowly. “If 
it were some wise scholar, who had studied all his life the 
sayings of Kung-foo-tse (Confucius), he might come and 
say to me, ‘A virtuous man will not rob the poor/ and give 
back my money. But a foreign woman-!” 

Words failed him. Cho’s shriveled old face shone more 
and more. He drew nearer to Li. 

“Jesus Christ,” he said, “was a far greater and better 
teacher than Kung-foo-tse. Both of them said, ‘Do to 
others as you would have them do to you’; but Kung- 
foo-tse did not have the power to make his followers do 
as he taught, unless it might be some great scholar, as you 
said. But Jesus makes His people able to do these things, 
even the women and children. Come with me tomorrow 


36 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


and hear about Him at the preaching house down by the 
school.” 

That was more than fifteen years ago, and old Cho has 
gone his way, with his shining face, to see the Master he 
had learned to love. But Li Chang—though that is not 
his real name—is now a Christian preacher who travels 
over a large district and holds service, every Sunday in 
three months, in a different church. Some of the churches 
used to be halls where the people once worshiped their 
ancestors, but now they are dedicated to the worship of the 
Christian God. 

Li Chang often tells the story of how he came to know 
about the Jesus way. 

“The Lord told His followers,” he says, “to become 
fishers of men; and so it was with my white teacher. For 
that time the price of a fish was the price of a man, and 
she bought me for the service of the Lord Jesus. Now I 
am His fisherman in my turn.” 

And many are the souls he gathers in the net of his 
earnest words, to lay at the feet of his Master. 


TARO AND THE MIKOSHI 


In a narrow back street in the city of Tokyo a crowd 
of Japanese boys stood arguing noisily. There were big 
boys, almost young men, with loud voices and overbearing 
ways. There were schoolboys, carrying their books, hop¬ 
ping eagerly about, and trying to get a word in edgewise. 
There were small boys, with their narrow, dark eyes 
stretched as far open as they would go, keeping a safe 
distance on the edge of the group, many of them carrying 
babies strapped to their backs. The clamor of voices rose 
high, and began to sound angry. 

“And who are you, Taro Ishimura, to refuse to carry 
the mikoshi with us any more?” demanded the biggest boy 
of the crowd threateningly. A slighter boy, the center of 
the group, raised his hand, and a hush fell for a moment 
on the noisy tongues as the boys crowded closer to hear 
his answer. 

“The mikoshi, Kato San,” he said pleasantly to the big 
bully, “is the shrine of a god, is it not, which the priests 
hire us to carry through the streets that the people may 
remember to worship ?” 

“Everybody knows that,” growled Kato. “Answer what 
I asked you, impertinent one!” 

Taro's head rose a trifle higher. 

“I am answering you, Kato,” he said steadily. “To 
carry the mikoshi is to serve one of the many gods of the 
temples, and to call people to worship him. When I prayed 
at the temples I thought this was right, and was glad to 
please thp gods by doing it. 

“But now all our family has listened to the Jesus-teach- 
ing, and we have all become Christians. I cannot help 
people to worship the gods any more, because I do not 

37 


38 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


believe in them. If I did this, I would be false to my re¬ 
ligion. I cannot help any longer to carry the mikoshi.”. 

The clamor arose again, louder than ever. Kato started 
forward with clenched fists; but the slender figure in the 
dark blue kimono suddenly dashed at a thin place in the 
crowd, darted through, and disappeared down a neigh¬ 
boring alley which led to the back door of his home. No¬ 
body tried to pursue; they were jammed too tightly in 
the narrow street, and the crowd closed in on itself again 
to take angry counsel. 

“I never thought those hateful foreigners would get 
hold of our Taro,” said one boy regretfully. “He was my 
best friend, but now I suppose my father will not let me 
go to his house any more.” 

“What is it that the Jesus people teach, Hiro?” asked 
another. “Why do they think they are too good to wor¬ 
ship our gods?” 

“I will tell you what they teach,” bawled Kato, furious 
that his victim had escaped him. “They teach the words 
of a coward! They say that you must not fight, but that 
if some one hits you on one cheek, you must turn the other 
and let him hit you there. Wait till I catch that Taro! 
I will keep him turning his cheeks till his head is dizzy!” 

“Listen, Kato San,” spoke the softer voice of his boon 
companion, Mutsu. There was not much cleverness in 
Kato’s big head; the boys said that Mutsu thought out 
most of his tricks for him, and in turn protected his 
weaker body behind Kato’s strong arm. “We can do better 
than that. You know how often we have used the mikoshi 
itself to punish troublesome people. How easy it is when 
the whole crowd of us is pushing and shoving, as we carry 
the mikoshi through the streets, to make it hit somebody’s 
house! And he whose house the mikoshi strikes—so the 
priests have always said—is one with whom the gods are 


TARO AND THE MIKOSHI 


39 


angry. It is right that he should be punished; and if the 
mikoshi should strike the house of the Ishimuras-” 

“Good!” cried Kato, his heavy face aflame. “Come, let 
us go to the priest. Tonight we shall carry the mikoshi 
past Taro’s house.” 

There was little concern in Taro’s heart as he slipped 
into his home. Sooner or later he knew he would have to 
break with the crowd in the matter of carrying the idol 
shrine; and he was glad it was done, and a little exultant 
that he had not failed to speak out boldly at the critical 
moment. He ate his supper with the family, played a 
while with his younger brother and sister, who were 
throwing a ball in the door-yard, and then settled down to 
the lessons which must be prepared for next day. 

He was so busy that he scarcely noticed the yelling of 
a gang of boys in the street or the tramping of many geta 
(wooden clogs), until there came a sudden crash against 
the corner of the house that made the frail building trem¬ 
ble and set the children screaming. 

Mr. Ishimura started up and went to the door, Taro 
following, while the mother tried to quiet the frightened 
little ones. A glare of torches and a babble of loud voices 
rushed in as the door was opened. 

“The gods are angry!” “The mikoshi struck the house !” 
“Some evil thing is hidden here!” “Some one has defied 
the gods!” “Let us tear the house down!” “Give us Taro, 
who despises the gods!” 

Mr. Ishimura turned to his son. “What is it, Taro?” 
The boy quickly told him. 

“Let me go out, father! I am the one they want. They 
will beat me, but they will not tear the house down or 
hurt the rest of you.” 

But his father pressed him back and stepped out before 
the angry mob. A stone flew from somewhere, and jeers 
and cries of “Christian!” drowned his voice. Kato had 



40 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


lifted his stocky arm to fling a torch on the low roof, when 
a cry of warning stopped him. The police were coming. 

The edges of the crowd began to melt away, but the 
brisk little policemen were on the spot before the ring¬ 
leaders could escape. Taro caught sight of a well-known 
face back of the police and cried joyfully to his father: 

“Hiro, my friend, has brought the police. He would 
not see us harmed ! He has stood by me against them all!” 

In a moment more Kato and his followers were under 
arrest—all except the wily Mutsu, who had objections to 
standing by a friend in trouble. He slipped out of the 
crowd like an eel, and the policeman who had clutched 
at him found only a cap in his hand. 

“This business of using the mikoshi to settle your 
private scores,” said the police captain sternly, “is to stop 
at once. It has happened too often. If that is all your 
religion means to you, you would do better to pray to the 
gods less, and learn to keep the laws. Mr. Ishimura is a 
peaceable citizen, and he will be protected. Off you go to 
the judge, who will tell you what you must pay for the 
damage you have done to this man’s house.” 

The rest of the crowd trooped off after the crestfallen 
Kato and his friends marching along between the police. 
But Hiro came shyly to lay his hand on his friend’s 
shoulder and whisper, “Taro, I want to know what there 
is in the Jesus-teaching that makes people brave. Will 
you tell me about Him?” 


WHEN THE DODO WALKED 


John Wanji, the deacon of the little Christian church 
in the African village, walked slowly homeward with a 
clouded face. He had bad news to tell his family. 

His wife, Sarah, and his daughters, Lois and Phoebe, 
all had been baptized with Christian names, and were 
faithful members of the little congregation. Now they 
were busy getting ready for the evening meal. The simple 
food—cakes made from pounded grain, with a dish of 
cooked greens—was just like that which was being served 
in many other huts throughout the village; but only in a 
Christian home, like this one, would all sit down and eat 
together, as John and his family presently did. 

Sarah had noticed that her husband looked worried; 
but she was a wise woman and asked no questions, letting 
him eat his supper in silence and waiting till he should be 
ready to tell her what was the matter. Lois and Phoebe 
chattered about the new field that they had cleared, which 
was ready to be planted with cassava. 

“It is for you, greedy girl,” laughed Phoebe, the 
younger, “that we must plant another field. While you 
were away at the mission school the old field was enough; 
but now you are home, and we must plant more, so you 
will have plenty to eat.” 

“If we have too much cassava,” said Lois, laughing 
good-naturedly, “we can sell some and send you, too, to 
the mission school. A big girl like you must learn to read 
better than I can teach you, and to do other things that 
the ‘white mammies’ teach. You may get more out of the 
cassava field than I do.” 

“You will not be able to plant your field,” said their 
father, breaking his silence. “Not this week, or next, or 
maybe this season.” 


41 


42 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Why not?” asked Sarah, alarmed. 

“The word went out today,” said John, “that the Dodo 
begins to walk tomorrow; and you know what that 
means.” 

A silence of dismay fell on the little family. They knew 
only too well what it meant. The Dodo was a scarecrow 
figure, supposed to be a spirit returned from the under¬ 
world, but really only a man dressed up to look frightful, 
which prowled about at times during the farming season. 
It was one of the many contrivances of the witch-doctor 
to keep the people in that state of fear and uneasiness 
which would make them come to buy his charms against 
evil spirits. 

The Dodo was supposed to be particularly unfriendly 
to women. He would bring great troubles on any woman 
he met in the fields or on the path through the bush. So 
all women and girls were ordered to stay in their houses 
as long as the Dodo was walking about; for he might not 
only put a charm on the women he met, but even on the 
fields they were working in. Whenever the Dodo appeared 
all the women took to their houses like a flock of fright¬ 
ened sheep, and never dared to stir outside the village 
circuit until the witch-doctor graciously announced that 
the Dodo’s visit was ended for that time. 

As these visits usually came in the farming season and 
as all the work of planting and cultivating was done by 
women and children, it was often inconvenient to have 
them happen. If the witch-doctor was in need of extra 
gifts in the way of chickens, rice or cassava, the Dodo 
stayed long enough for the witch-doctor to lay in plentiful 
supplies before he withdrew—gifts which the desperate 
farmerettes gladly made to have the Dodo charmed away 
from their village. 

Now the Dodo had come again, and Sarah and her 
daughters, as well as all the other women, were com- 


WHEN THE DODO WALKED 


43 


manded to stay at home, no one knew for how long, while 
the new field lay ready for planting and the old one for 
tillage. 

Suddenly Lois spoke up. 

“Father,” said she, “the Dodo is nothing to be afraid 

of.” 

John looked at her inquiringly. 

“We are Christian people,” explained Lois. “All of 
us are baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus. I do not 
believe the Dodo is a spirit at all; but even if he is one, 
did not the Lord tell the bad spirits to go away and not 
hurt His people?” 

“Yes, child, yes,” said her father. 

“Then,” said Lois, “why need we be afraid? If we go 
out and meet the Dodo will he not run away if we pray? 
Is it right for Christian women to hide as if they were 
afraid? Besides, we need to get our field planted if Phoebe 
is going to have her chance to go to school. Please let 
me go to the field tomorrow. I am not at all afraid!” 

“I know the Dodo will not hurt you, daughter,” an¬ 
swered her father slowly. “But the other people in the 
town who are not Christians will be very angry at us, and 
maybe they will catch you and beat you.” 

“If I am not afraid of spirits, I need not be afraid of 
people like ourselves,” said Lois stoutly. “The Lord can 
take care of me, no matter who tries to hurt me.” 

Then Sarah spoke out. 

“I have often felt ashamed,” she said, “to sit hiding 
indoors because of the Dodo. It is not what a Christian 
should do. Let her go, John, and I will go with her. 
Perhaps some of the other Christian women will take 
courage, and we shall all be set free from this foolish 
custom.” 

“Let me go, too!” cried Phoebe; but her mother shook 
her head. 


44 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Not you, little one. Stay here, and if any harm comes 
to us your father will have one to keep his house. But 
I am not afraid, for Lois is right; the Lord Jesus will 
take care of us, and we cannot be hurt by man or evil 
spirit.” 

It took much more talking to persuade John to let his 
wife and daughter go; but the next morning both of them 
started early for the field. 

All day they worked busily, caring nothing for the heat 
of the sun. Once they heard the tinkling of the little 
bells the Dodo wears, off on a path in the bush, and once 
Lois thought she saw an ugly painted face glaring at them 
from behind the trees; but nobody interfered with them, 
and they came home in high spirits, with a good part of 
the planting done. 

After a day or two several other Christian women came 
out to work on their own little patches; their husbands 
only laughed when the witch-doctor scolded, and said, 

‘‘Who can tell what a woman will do ?” 

Then the witch-doctor stirred up the heathen neighbors 
of these brave women, and they took the matter to the 
headman of the village. He summoned John and his 
family before him, and heard the witnesses, who told how 
the law of the Dodo had been broken. 

The headman was very angry. He sentenced John to 
pay a heavy fine, and to be driven with his family from the 
village. 

By this time all the Christians in the town were aroused. 

“We will not let you be driven away,” they said to 
John and Sarah. “We are not so many, but we are strong 
enough to fight this unjust sentence. Come, let us take 
this case to the head chief and see whether we can be 
driven about like cattle because we will not do what the 
witch-doctor tells us.” 


WHEN THE DODO WALKED 


45 


The head chief of the district was a Mohammedan and 
had no love for Christians. The heathen neighbors 
laughed when they heard that the case was to be taken 
to him. 

But the leading men of the little church mustered so 
strong when the case was brought before him, and showed 
such tact and courage in representing to him that the 
witch-doctor, who had no real right to rule the village, 
was trying to make laws for them, and keeping the women 
from their work in order to get rich at their expense, 
that the chief—who was really a just man—gave his 
judgment in their favor. 

‘‘No man or woman belonging to a Christian house¬ 
hold,” was his decision, “can be compelled to hide when 
the Dodo is about. No one can be driven from his home 
because he will not obey the witch-doctor. The town is 
free for all to live in, to work their farms, and to follow 
their faith, whatever it is.” 

The Christians went home triumphant and held a serv¬ 
ice of thanksgiving in the little church. 

“Do you not feel glad that we tried it?” said Lois to 
her mother as they went homeward. 

“Yes,” said Sarah, “the Lord not only took care of us, 
but He has set all of us free. Nobody will ever again try 
to make Christians obey the witch-doctor in our village; 
and in all the towns around the Christians will hear of it, 
and they, too, will be made bold to trust their Lord. 
Besides, many of our heathen neighbors have told me that 
they would like to know more about the God who makes 
His people not to be afraid of anything. You have done 
a great thing, little daughter.” 

And Lois answered softly, “Not I, mother, but the 
Lord Jesus!” 


THE MAN WHO DIDN’T RUN AWAY 
FROM DIRT 


Lolo was sitting in the sun. That was one of the few 
things he really cared about doing. There was pleasure 
in eating, of course; but no meal, however good, was com¬ 
plete without a long, dreamy lounge in the warm sunshine 
afterward. 

Lolo was a man in years and in size, but his mind was 
smaller than that of the American child who starts to 
school for the first time. In the little African village 
there was nothing to feed the tiny mind in the big body— 
nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to do—except 
things he didn’t want to do. 

Just now, he was thinking about one of those things, 
which all the people in the village would have to do pres¬ 
ently. 

“Soon time to make new village,” he thought lazily, 
and the thought disturbed the pleasant ease of his idleness. 
Making a new village was not an agreeable task, but it 
was the less of two evils. 

The natives of that part of Africa where Lolo lived 
have a custom that would seem very strange to us. When¬ 
ever the filth in their villages—for they never clean any¬ 
thing up—becomes too bad to endure, they move to an¬ 
other place, clear new land and build another village. This 
happens about once in eighteen months. 

If you had looked at Lolo, you would not have thought 
he was afraid of dirt, for there was plenty of it on him 
and about him. But Lolo, and every other African in his 
tribe, had this same habit; they would run away from 
dirt and leave it, rather than clean it up. As for what 

46 


THE MAN WHO DIDN*T RUN AWAY FROM DIRT 47 

was on themselves, another coat of grease would cover it 
up, and make them beautifully shiny again! 

While Lolo sat lounging there, he saw a stranger 
coming up the path that led out of the bush. Usually the 
first person who sees a stranger calls out the whole village 
to look; but Lolo was too comfortable to move, and he 
watched the man idly. At first he thought it must be a 
white man, for he wore a great many more clothes than 
were the style in Lolo’s village. But as the man drew 
nearer, Lolo saw that he was as black as himself. His 
curiosity began to stir. 

“Black man, in white man’s clothes. Um!” he remarked 
to himself. 

There was another thing that had made him take the 
newcomer at first for a white man. He walked briskly 
along the narrow path, instead of idling along like a 
native. 

“Him walk fast!” muttered Lolo. “What be after 
him?” But he could see neither wild animal nor trouble¬ 
some white man on the stranger’s footsteps, so he won¬ 
dered more and more why he should walk so quickly— 
it seemed quick to Lolo—when he didn’t have to do it. 

On the very edge of the village stood a hut which no¬ 
body had entered for days. In it lay a poor woman in the 
clutch of that terrible disease, the African sleeping-sick¬ 
ness. With no one who cared enough to go near her, she 
was sleeping her life away in a filthy hut, among dirt and 
insects of every kind. 

The buzzing of the flies about the hut attracted the 
stranger’s notice as he passed it. He went to the low door¬ 
way and looked inside. If Lolo had not been too lazy he 
would have called and told him what was within; but he 
thought the man would soon enough find out for himself 
and hurry on his way. 

“Him be gone in!” said Lolo suddenly, sitting erect 


48 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


with something as near a start as his lazy muscles could 
produce. “What for he go in that dirty place? All him 
nice clean clothes be spoiled! Him foolish man!” 

But the foolish man was coming out again. In his hand 
was an old gourd dipper. He laid down the little bundle 
he carried carefully beside the path. Then he took the 
gourd down to the stream that ran a little way beyond, 
and dipped some water in it. Coming back, he knelt beside 
his bundle and took from it a piece of white cloth. Then 
he entered the hut again, carrying the cloth and the water. 

Lolo’s curiosity got the better of his laziness. Rising 
with unusual quickness, he started over to where he could 
get a view inside the hut. 

The strange man stood within looking around for a 
place to set the gourd down. Then he shook his head and 
turned to come out again. Lolo stepped behind a tree, for 
he did not want the stranger to see that he was watched. 
If he knew it he might stop doing those queer things, and 
Lolo wanted mightily to see what would happen next. 

What did happen was this: The stranger set the gourd 
down again on the ground and hung the cloth on the 
limb of a tree. Then, breaking some branches, he pro¬ 
ceeded to bind them together with long grass in the most 
approved form of an African broom. 

In again he went, and presently Lolo saw him sweeping 
busily. How many kinds of dirt and vermin came out of 
that hut in the next quarter hour, it would be hard to 
count. The stranger was not content with sweeping them 
outside. He made a fire with some strange device that 
Lolo could not see, because the man’s back was turned. In 
this he burned everything that would burn; then, digging 
the loose earth with a stick, he buried all that was left. 

Lolo had never seen anything like this. But stranger 
things were to come. The man, taking off his “white men’s 
shoes,” and rolling up his duck trousers, carried gourd 


THE MAN WHO DIDN’T RUN AWAY FROM DIRT 49 

after gourd of water, and with his broom—and another 
one which he made when that was worn out—he scrubbed 
the hard earthen floor of the hut with all his might. The 
heat dried it almost as soon as he was done. 

“Now what happen?” Lolo asked himself; for the 
man had thrown away his broom and gone for more 
water. 

Now the white cloth came down from the tree; the 
bundle came open again, and a queer little green cake of 
something came out of it, and went into the hut with the 
man, the water and the white cloth. Lolo had never seen 
soap in his life before. 

The stranger bent over the rude earthen bed where the 
poor woman lay. Tenderly he bathed her unconscious face 
and her grimy hands. The swarms of flies were already 
leaving the hut, where the odor of filth was no longer to 
be enjoyed. 

There were other things that came out of the bundle, 
but Lolo could not see what they all were. Something 
from a little black bottle was dropped into the woman’s 
mouth, and the man stroked her throat gently until she 
swallowed it. Then he gathered his belongings and put 
them into the bundle again—all but the white cloth; that 
he left hanging on the tree to dry. 

At last the man started on his way again, right up into 
the middle of Lolo’s village. Lolo followed him at a safe 
distance. 

One day, many months later, a missionary from the 
coast came into the interior, following the steps of the 
native Christian teacher who had gone that way to bring 
the good news of Jesus and His love. 

At the little village where Lolo lived—which hadn’t 
moved since then; it was cleaned up, instead—he found 
about sixty men and women waiting to be examined for 
baptism. 


50 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


The leader was a very big and very black fellow who 
gave his native name as Lolo, but asked to be baptized 
under the name of Paul. 

“What made you want to be a Christian ?” asked the 
missionary when he examined this man. 

Then Lolo told him all the story of the sick woman, the 
filthy hut, and the man who didn’t run away from the 
dirt, but cleaned it up. 

“Him take off shoes, roll up clothes, carry water, sweep, 
wash old woman’s face, make her rest easy. Then him 
come up in town, talk about Jesus, say Him help people. 
Then I say, ‘You good Jesus-man; do what Him do. This 
be true talk; this be good talk. Lolo be Jesus-man too.’ ’’ 
Lolo paused for a moment. Then he looked around the 
clean little village and waved his big hand. 

“ ‘Deeds never die!’ ” he said. And that is an African 
proverb that is just as true in any other country in the 
world. 


SADHU AND THE CHOLERA GODDESS 


“Doctor Sahib,” said Chunder Philip, the deacon, en¬ 
tering Doctor Field’s office in the mission house early one 
morning, “I have to report that the boy Sadhu, the famine 
orphan, is gone.” 

“Gone, Philip?” said the doctor, looking up from his 
desk. “Where is he gone, and since when ? He had his cat¬ 
echism lesson with you yesterday, had he not?” 

“Yes, Doctor Sahib,” said Philip, his dark face clouded 
with regret, “and he knew it every word. Truly, Sadhu 
was a bright and promising lad; but it is over now. His 
cousins, as you know, came to visit him last week. When 
he was left destitute by the famine none of them cared to 
have him, and they were glad enough to have the Doctor 
Sahib take him in. But of late they have come often to 
see him; and I think they have come by night and coaxed 
him away. His mat is on the veranda, but his extra coat 
and his Testament are gone. I fear we shall not see him 
again.” 

“It’s too bad, Philip,” said the doctor. “Sadhu had the 
making of a useful man in him, and I hoped he would 
become one of our teachers. But he was young, and no 
doubt his people promised him many things. At least he 
has the teaching you gave him, and his Testament. I am 
glad he took the Testament along.” 

Two years passed swiftly over the mission, and no word 
of Sadhu was received. The memory of him had almost 
faded from the mind of the busy missionary, when one 
day again Philip stood in the doorway. This time a smile 
brightened the brown face under the spotless white turban. 

“Doctor Sahib, will you please come here and look?” 
said the deacon, leading the way to the veranda. 

51 


52 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


A group of perhaps fifty people, old and young, stood 
respectfully at a little distance. They were village people 
from one of the many little hamlets scattered about; their 
dusty garments showed that they had walked a considera¬ 
ble distance. They salaamed as the doctor appeared. 

On the steps of the veranda stood a bright-eyed boy, 
who bowed low to the doctor. At the first glance Doctor 
Fields did not recognize him; then he exclaimed: 

“Why, it’s Sadhu!” 

“Yes, Doctor Sahib,” said Philip in great delight. “It 
is our runaway Sadhu. He has been reading his little 
Testament to the people in his village, and telling them 
what he learned here. Now he has brought them to ask 
for baptism. Will the Doctor Sahib be pleased to take the 
time to ask them some questions ?” 

Then Doctor Field, who was a physician of souls as 
well as of bodies, called the group to the veranda and for 
nearly an hour gave himself to examining them on what 
Sadhu had taught them. 

“It’s a little irregular, Philip,” he finally said, “but I 
think we will take these people to the chapel and baptize 
them now. I never met any better prepared than they 
are; they seem to know the Testament almost from end 
to end, and they have answered every question I asked 
them, not only correctly but in an excellent spirit. It 
might be a long time before I would be able to get to 
their village, and I see no reason to make them wait. Do 
you, Philip?” 

And Philip, aglow with pride in the work of his former 
pupil, answered, like his namesake in the Bible : 

“If they believe with all their hearts, surely they may 
be baptized!” 

The happy little band that went homeward from the 
mission chapel that day was a troubled one a few weeks 
later. Out in the little village of their abode great trouble 


SADHU AND THE CHOLERA GODDESS 


53 


had come. There was famine, but that there had been 
before; all of them knew what it was to be hungry most 
of the time. But now cholera had broken out, and many 
of the few hundred inhabitants of the village were sick. 

For the little group of Christians, however, there was a 
greater trouble than the fear of sickness. Indeed, since 
their baptism the neighbors remarked often on their quiet, 
cheerful faces, and the fearlessness with which they went 
about the infected village. It was not for their bodies that 
they were anxious. 

The people whom Sadhu had taught were of the caste 
who were the temple servants. So far none of them had 
been called upon since their baptism for active service in 
the heathen worship; but now, when the cholera goddess 
was raging in the village, there would be a great sacrifice 
to her, to turn away her anger and stay the plague. 

“They will want us all,” said one anxious Christian to 
another. “The priest says that many cattle are to be killed; 
and we must make them ready for the sacrifice, and carry 
their heads around the village behind the priest as he 
chants the hymns to the cholera goddess.” 

“But we cannot do it,” said another. “We are Christians 
now, and the water of baptism is hardly yet dry upon our 
heads. How can we deny our Jesus?” 

“It will be very hard for some of us,” said a man with 
a large family. “We should be well paid for doing the 
work. I have many children and they are often hungry, 
since the famine grows worse. Friends, I do not want 
to deny the Lord Jesus, but it will need much praying to 
keep from wishing for the rice that the priest’s money 
would buy.” 

“Let us see what Sadhu says,” one and another would 
suggest. 

The boy teacher was in much perplexity. All night he 
had prayed earnestly, knowing that his people were in 


54 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


great temptation. When they came to him his face was 
bright with decision. 

“This will we do, my brothers,” he told them. “We 
will tell the priest when he calls for us that we will make 
a sacrifice, and pray that the cholera will be taken away; 
but we will take our offering to the Jesus temple, where 
we were baptized, and make our prayer to Him for our 
village. To the cholera goddess we will make no prayer, 
for there is no such goddess. There is one God, and He 
only can save.” 

The priest tried all his persuasions. He told the Chris¬ 
tians that they need make no offering themselves and 
utter no word of prayer, if they would only do the work. 
But Sadhu kept them firm. Daily they prayed to the Lord 
Jesus, and each day they brought a small offering, out of 
their poverty, to the place of prayer. 

Some weeks later, when the cholera had passed like a 
dark cloud from the little village, those who were strong 
enough to walk so far made another pilgrimage to the 
mission station. Wasted with hunger as they were, it 
was a joyous band that stood salaaming when the doctor 
came out. 

“We have brought our offering to the Lord Jesus,” 
said Sadhu, “who kept us true to Him, and turned away 
the cholera. Not one of the Christian homes has been 
visited by the sickness, and all have kept their faith. We 
have come to thank Him for bringing us safely through.” 

It was a wonderful thanksgiving service that they held 
in the mission chapel that day; and you may be sure that 
the Doctor Sahib, and Phili the deacon, did not let them 
go home without some rice in their wallets for the hungry 
children, and great joy in their simple, faithful hearts. 


DOGS’ BOOKS 


A little crowd of Burmese village folk might have been 
seen one day collected about a man with a large pack on 
his back. A crowd in Burma is always a sight worth 
looking at. No matter how poor the village, its people 
always go about clad in rainbow colors; whatever else 
they save on, it is not on the dyes that color their clothing. 
A Burmese village on a festal day has all the changing 
glory of a kaleidoscope, as the many colors move and 
mingle against the green of the beautiful landscape. 

The man who stood in the midst of the crowd was 
rather a contrast to his listeners. He had evidently trav¬ 
eled many miles along dusty roads. His homespun gar¬ 
ment was of undyed cotton, and just now it was travel- 
stained and gray with dust. On his feet were the home¬ 
made wooden slippers worn by the poorer classes in 
Burma. But his eyes were bright and his face was pleas¬ 
ant ; and his speech must have been attractive, for the 
little knot of villagers kept edging nearer and nearer as 
he went on talking. 

“Who is it?” asked a woman of her neighbor, on the 
outskirts of the crowd. 

“His name is Thwai,” replied the other, “and he comes 
from Rangoon.” 

“From Rangoon—and dressed like that?” asked the 
first scornfully. “He looks like some old farmer just in 
from the field!” 

“Oh, he is a Christian, and you know they dress very 
plainly,” said her friend. “They pay all their money for 
their church and for books. That is what he wants us to 
do—buy his books and read them.” 

55 


56 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“I wouldn’t buy any of the Christian books!” said the 
first with a shudder. “I have heard that all who buy them 
become Christians, and all Christians have to go to the 
Great War.” 

“But the Great War is over,” put in a bystander. 

“That one is,” said the woman, “but who knows when 
there will be another? Did not all the Christians leave 
their schools and churches and go to the war a few years 
ago? My cousin from Moulmein told me so.” 

“At any rate,” spoke up another woman, “great trou¬ 
bles will follow all who buy these books. Our priest told 
me so. If you so much as touch them, the gods will send 
sickness into your family. If you read them there will 
be great disasters—earthquakes, floods and fires; maybe 
another war, indeed!” 

By this time the more timid of the on-lookers, hearing 
such dire predictions about the innocent-looking books 
he carried, were beginning to draw away from the colpor¬ 
teur. The edges of the crowd began to waver and scatter 
like flower petkls before a gust of wind. 

Colporteur Thwai kept on telling about his books. Those 
who were near enough to hear him plainly were not going 
away. They stood rooted to their places, held by the 
charm of the story he was telling. It was the story of 
another village, its griefs and its Comforter—the little 
town of Nain. 

Just then a rich young Burman came strolling along 
the street. His dress was a curious mixture, such as one 
can often see today in Oriental countries where Western 
customs and ideas are spreading, but not yet reigning. 

He wore the bright-hued coat of a Burmese gentleman; 
but on his feet, instead of the native shoes, were boots of 
English make, on his head an English straw hat, and in 
his hand—strangest of all—a short English swagger stick. 


dogs’ books 


57 


To the gentleman’s own taste, he was attired in the 
height of elegance; his manner showed it, and the crowd 
probably agreed with him, to judge by the admiring 
glances that were cast as he approached. 

The crowd opened to let him through, and so it hap¬ 
pened that he passed very near to the dusty, plainly clad 
colporteur. He paused for an instant, and looked the 
shabby figure over from head to foot. His glance at 
length rested on the little book the other held. 

“Dogs’ books!” said he scornfully, snapping his fingers 
in contempt. 

A flush came to the young colporteur’s face, but he 
was not defeated or silenced. In a moment his voice rang 
out clearly to the very edge of the crowd. 

“Yes, dogs’ books, if you call them so!” he cried. “Yet 
even a dog has sense enough to know where food is 
buried,” and he pointed to the little dog that followed the 
young dandy, which had begun to sniff and paw at the 
ground near by. A great wave of laughter ran over the 
crowd. 

“It is only men,” went on Thwai, “who are so stupid as 
not to know where to find the food their souls need. That 
is why I am trying to show you how to find it. 

“Besides-” here it was Thwai’s turn to survey the 

Burman dandy from head to foot; his eyes twinkled mer¬ 
rily as he went on—“besides, young men who adopt Eng¬ 
lish fashions in dress should not jeer at English books.” 

The shot went home. The scornful young man tried 
to retreat with as much dignity as possible, but roars of 
laughter kept following him all the way down the street. 

“And now,” said Thwai, when the shouts of mirth had 
subsided, “let me read you another story.” And while 
the crowd hung hushed upon his words, there was a sound 
that had not been there before. It was a subdued jingling; 
for in many a knotted fold of a robe or inner pocket, or 



58 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


on a string of bangles, there were hands exploring secretly 
for the coin that was presently to buy a book. And the 
young agent of the British and Foreign Bible Society 
sold many Testaments that day. 


CHANG LI’S LITTLE ROOM 


Chang Li was singing again. His employer, the 
wealthy Hung Su, frowned as he listened. It was not 
because Chang Li’s singing was bad, for the young 
man had a really pleasant voice; Hung Su had to 
admit that. 

“It is those miserable Christian songs he sings!’’ 
muttered his employer. “Everywhere he is, he keeps 
humming them, even at his desk; and at the noon 
hour he sings them out loud, and all my people come 
to listen. And he reads to them out of the little book 
he carries, and even prays to his God before them. I 
cannot have it! A Christian church right here in my 
warehouse, that is what I shall be having soon! It 
will make me endless trouble with my friends and cus¬ 
tomers; besides, it will take the minds of my employees 
off their work. It must stop!” 

Chang Li was a bright-faced young man, fresh from 
the mission college. Even when he was summoned to 
the office of the great man, he had no thought of being 
reproved, but walked briskly to the door, humming 
one of the objectionable Christian hymns along the 
way. Hung Su caught the sound before the knocking, 
and it made him crosser than ever. 

“Young man,” he said abruptly, when Chang Li 
stood before him, “this place is not a church, nor a 
mission school. You can’t hold your services here, and 
I’m tired of hearing those silly hymns of yours. You 
will cause great offense to some of my customers. It 
must stop, do you hear?” 

“Does my honorable employer wish me to leave?” 
inquired Chang Li politely. 

“No,” said Hung Su, who had not failed to note the 
59 


60 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


young clerk’s neat and careful work; “not if you can 
stop disturbing me and my employees with your re¬ 
ligion.” 

“But I cannot stay where I am not allowed to wor¬ 
ship my God,” said Chang Li firmly. 

“Well, worship Him, then,” said Hung Su testily, 
“but do it in your own room. It’s rather a nuisance 
that you room in my establishment, but if you will 
sing and pray softly up there where it will bother 
nobody, you may stay.” 

Chang Li bowed silently and went out. It was a 
great disappointment to him. He had come from the 
mission school with rosy dreams of winning many 
souls for his Master among the men in Hung Su’s 
employ—perhaps even the great man himself. Now he 
had only succeeded in annoying him, and had made 
him less favorable to the new religion than ever. 

Some of His fellow workers missed Chang Li’s sing¬ 
ing, and caihe by one and two to his little room, away 
off in one corner of the big warehouse. It was a very 
small room indeed, and would hold only three or four 
at a time, but very earnest were the songs and prayers 
that arose there, and Chang was gradually cheered by 
seeing that his friends were being won more and more 
as time went on. 

One person who came often to the warehouse was 
outspoken in his laments for the silenced singing. This 
was Chun, the little nephew of Hung Su—his brother’s 
only son. He loved dearly to visit the rambling old 
warehouse, and had liked it more than ever since 
Chang Li had been there. 

“Sing me a pretty song, Chang Li,” he commanded, 
coming in some days after Chang had been warned to 
keep quiet. 

“Not today, Chun,” said the young man rather sadly. 


CHANG Li'S LITTLE ROOM * 61 

The boy was quick to catch the tone, and looked up 
inquiringly into his friend’s face. 

“Is there a pain in your throat, Chang Li?” he asked. 

“No, but I am not permitted to sing any more,” said 
Chang. 

“Who said so?” was Chun’s next question. 

“Your honorable uncle, Hung Su,” replied the 
clerk. 

“I will go and see him about it,” said Chun, starting 
determinedly for the door. 

“No, no, Chun!” said Chang Li, hastily slipping 
from his stool and pursuing the child to the door. 
“He would be very angry and perhaps discharge me. 
He does not want singing in the warehouse, but he 
lets me sing in my own room. Some day I will take 
you there and sing for you.” 

“And pray to your Jesus-God, and read out of your 
little book?” asked Chun. “I want to hear again the 
story about the thousands of people that were fed 
with a few loaves of bread and fishes.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Chang Li, “some day. Now I must 
finish making out these bills, or your uncle will say 
I am a lazy fellow. Come again, little friend!” 

And Chun departed, meditating an early visit to 
Chang’s little room. 

But before these plans could be carried out a sorry 
thing happened. Chun, the joy of his father’s house¬ 
hold, as well as the pet of his uncle, Hung Su, was 
taken very ill. 

“He has convulsions,” the report went around the 
warehouse, “and all the doctors and charm-makers 
have been called in, but the evil spirits will not come 
out of him.” 

Day by day the sad news came. Chang Li was very 
sad, and many prayers went up from the little room 


62 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


to the merciful Jesus, the Healer of men. One eve¬ 
ning, when Chang was on his knees alone in his room, 
there came a knocking at the door. He opened it to 
admit one of Hung Su’s servants. 

“My master is in great trouble about his brother’s 
son,” explained the man. “All has been done for him 
that the doctors, witches and makers of magic can do; 
and he lies day and night in a stupor, only when the 
convulsions seize him. My master sends to ask you, 
‘What do Christians do in such a case?’ ” 

“We pray to God,” came the young man’s ready 
answer. The servant seemed to be expecting it, for 
he replied: 

“Then come and pray for little Master Chun.” 

“Go to Hung Su,” said the clerk, “and remind him 
that he has forbidden me to read, sing or pray except 
in this little room. I am praying here all the time for 
Chun; I love him dearly, and will plead earnestly all 
night for his recovery.” 

The servant disappeared; but not more than fifteen 
minutes had passed when he came back again. 

“My master says, come quickly and pray by the 
child’s bedside,” he insisted. “Your God might make 
a mistake, and cure the wrong child.” 

“My God makes no mistakes,” said Chang Li 
proudly. “But if it is permitted I will come and pray 
for the little Chun willingly.” And he followed the 
servant to the house of Hung Su’s brother. 

Hung Su himself was waiting anxiously there with 
the others, and it was with great difficulty that Chang 
kept them all from crowding into the room where the 
child lay. 

“You will pray aloud so that we may hear?” inquired 
the child’s father. 

“Yes, I will pray aloud,” said Chang; and they all 


CHANG Li’s LITTLE ROOM 


63 


gathered about the door to hear their first Christian 
prayer. 

Only a few sentences had Chang uttered, when the 
eyes of the sick boy unclosed and a misty smile stole 
across his face. 

“Chang! dear Chang Li!” he whispered. “Sing me 
a song; my uncle will let you now!” 

Hymn after hymn the young man sang, with words 
of prayer between. As the boy listened, smiling, a 
soft dew began to gather on his forehead. Chang put 
his hand there, and knew that the fever was breaking. 
On and on he sang, with that hushed family waiting 
breathless around the door. At last the child fell into 
a sweet, natural sleep, still smiling, and holding fast 
to the young man’s hand. 

* * * 

A few months ago the wealthy Hung Su, now a 
regular attendant at Christian services in the village, 
called his young clerk again to his office. 

“Chang Li,” he said, “what do you know about this 
meeting of Christians they are going to have at Chao- 
cheng?” 

“It is going to be a great Conference,” said Chang 
Li readily. He had just come from conducting the 
noonday service now held regularly in the warehouse. 
“Our church wanted to send a delegate, but it is a 
long way, and we had not money enough.” 

“Here,” said his employer, handing him a bag, “is 
the money for your expenses to go to Chao-cheng. 
I want you to go and tell all who are there how the 
Christians’ God answers prayer and honors his faith¬ 
ful servants. Go, and God be with you! But return 
soon, or Chun will grieve his heart away for you!” 

And he waved the delighted young man out of his 
office with a smile that left no doubt as to what Hung 
Su thought about Christians now. 


WHEN DASTUR ATE SAGO 


“Truly,” said Dastur to himself, pausing to count 
the small coins in his hand, “truly, I am very tired of 
rice. Also, the tourist sahib threw me a half anna for 
telling him the road that would take him the quickest 
to Chirala. What strange people the sahibs from 
America are! All they think of is to get somewhere 
quick—quick. One would think he feared Chirala 
would run away while he was going to it. So he 
makes his car run faster, faster, and stirs up all the 
road into a great dust, very bad for poor people who 
have to walk. 

“Well, he is gone, but his half anna is here. They 
must be princes, these American sahibs, to pay so 
large a prifce for a few words that take but a moment 
to say. So I am richer than I thought to be this day, 
and I remember that for a long time I have been very 
tired of rice and wished for a change of fare. What 
shall it be?” 

By this time, strolling along as he talked to him¬ 
self, Dastur had reached the main street of the village 
and the stalls of its tiny bazaar. Before he went to his 
work he must buy the small portion of food that would 
furnish his chief meal of the day. Usually it was a 
small handful of rice, which he boiled and ate without 
thinking much about it. On holidays a little portion 
of fish or a handful of fruit added to the rice made a 
banquet. 

Today he was not quite extravagant enough for 
such indulgence, but he was determined on a change— 
something, at least, that would be different from the 
daily meal of rice. Even a Hindu brought up on that 
nourishing grain grows weary of it at times. 

64 


WHEN DASTUR ATE SAGO 


65 


In the bazaar he stood irresolute, glancing from 
side to side. How beautiful were the plums and apri¬ 
cots! But one could not make a meal of them alone 
when a hard day’s work was to be done. And it was not 
a holiday, that he should have two kinds of food at 
one meal. 

Presently his face brightened. Sago was almost as 
cheap as rice and it had quite a different taste. He 
would have some for his dinner that day. 

The dealer carefully weighed the small portion of 
sago and dumped it into an improvised sack made of 
a sheet of printed paper. Dastur took it, paid the man 
and went away to his work. 

When the meal hour came Dastur slung his little 
cooking pot over the fire and prepared to boil his sago. 
As he smoothed out the printed page in which the 
food was wrapped, he noticed that it was not merely 
a bit torn from a newspaper. Evidently it was a page 
out of a book. Also, it was in his own language. 
Dastur was rather proud of being able to read. He 
smoothed the page still more carefully and began to 
puzzle out the words which sounded rather strange 
to him. 

“Peace,” he read, “peace—I—leave—with—you.” 

It was a pleasant saying. As he read on he decided 
that the speaker must be some great “guru,” or teach¬ 
er, who was going away on a journey. Perhaps he was 
a prince, for he spoke about his Father’s House and 
said there were many mansions in it, and that the 
friends he was leaving were to come there some day 
to live with him. 

Dastur turned the sheet. There another pleasant 
word caught his eye—“joy.” “And—that—your—joy 

_might—be—full.” Peace and joy! Surely the man 

must be a prince who could give such parting gifts as 


66 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


these! And he had thought the American a prince, 
with his half anna! 

He read every word on both sides of the sheet. He 
very nearly let his precious sago burn while he de¬ 
voured the pleasant words, and ate it with very little 
sense of the difference between it and his customary 
rice. 

There was one thing he could not understand. In 
spite of the peace and joy there was also a tone of 
sadness. Something was going to happen to the 
Prince, the wonderful Teacher. How he wished he 
might know the whole story! 

Several days passed and Dastur could not forget 
the bit of paper. Indeed, he carried it with him and 
read it whenever he got a chance, and his desire to 
knoyr the whole story kept growing and growing. 

At last he went to the merchant from whom he had 
bought the sago. 

“Ah, yes!” said the man. “That was a page from a 
book that a foreign sahib was selling here one day. 
He came from two-three villages away. I bought the 
book to see what it was like, but I got tired of reading 
it, so I used the pages to wrap my sago in when I sold 
it. They are all gone now.” 

“But the man—the sahib?” inquired Dastur eagerly. 
“Where did you say he lived? Is it far from here?” 

The man gave him the name of the village and 
turned to another customer. 

Some nights later a missionary was wakened before 
dawn by a persistent knocking at his door. 

“It is I—Dastur, from the village where your books 
were sold two moons ago,” came the call. “I am come 
for a book that tells of one who said, 'Peace I leave 
with you’ and 'Your joy shall be full/ ” 

The missionary was very sleepy, but not too drowsy 


WHEN DASTUR ATE SAGO 


67 


to recognize those words. Going to his shelves, by the 
light of a candle he chose a small copy of the Gospel 
of John. 

The man at the door received it with outstretched 
hands, paid the small price the missionary named and 
went gliding away into the early morning twilight as 
noiselessly as a ghost. The missionary rubbed his 
eyes and would almost have believed he dreamed it 
all, except for the coin in his hand and the vacancy in 
the bookshelf. 

Later he said to himself: “Why didn’t I stop that 
fellow and ask him some questions? It may be worth 
while following him up. If he came all that distance 
for a book, he must be interested. Well, when I go 
back to his village, I’ll look him up.” 

It was several months before the missionary’s tasks 
took him again in the direction of Dastur’s village. 
It was rather a puzzling task to inquire for a man 
whose name he did not know, but he came upon his 
traces in the bazaar at last. 

“Oh, yes, sahib,” said the sago dealer. “His name 
is Dastur, and he read a leaf of the book that was 
wrapped around my sago. He gave me no peace after 
that till I told him where the sahib lived. He has read 
his little book and talked about it to everybody in the 
village, and now he has gone out to all the villages 
around to tell people about that wonderful Yesu, who 
gives gifts of peace and joy. 

“He told me if the sahib came again to say that 
many more would be wanting books, and he will leave 
the money here with me to pay for them. Truly, I 
think I will buy another for myself, since the sago 
customers got all the other one. It is not a bad story, 
and Dastur says he never gets tired of reading it.” 


68 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


And the missionary, following Dastur through the 
villages, found many waiting to be gathered into the 
kingdom of the Prince who came to bring peace and 
joy to all the world. 




MISSIONARY MUSTARD 


None of the village elders could tell how Chief 
Senga got his stiff neck. He could not imagine, 
himself, how it ever happened. One night he lay down 
to sleep in the grass-roofed mud hut which is all the 
palace an African chief can boast. The next morning 
his head was twisted to one side, and he could not 
straighten it at all. Whenever he tried a terrible pain 
shot through his neck and shoulder, as if somebody 
were trying to twist his head off. 

He was very much alarmed, for he had never felt 
anything like it before. The fact that he had been 
out in the rain the previous night and had lain down 
to sleep with a wet cloth wrapped about him, and 
with his head on a bale of new calico two feet high, 
just purchased with ivory tusks from a trader—that 
these facts had anything at all to do with the pain in 
his neck, he never imagined. How was one to keep a 
bale of new calico from being stolen in the night unless 
he slept on it? Each of his thirty wives was to have 
a new dress out of that bale before anybody else in 
the village got a chance at it. Wives were a great 
expense, but a chief must have many of them to show 
his importance, and they must be well dressed, too. 

But this terrible stiff neck! Senga tried to lift his 
head erect, and howled with pain. Something beyond 
his powers to explain had happened in the night. He 
was frightened and helpless, with the African's great 
fear of the unknown. 

He summoned all the village elders to his hut; 
that is, he sent a boy to call them, and after one look 
69 


70 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


at Senga the boy made haste to spread the news 
that the chief was sitting outside his hut groaning like 
a wounded elephant, with his head almost down on 
his shoulder. 

Presently a noisy crowd of Job’s comforters sur¬ 
rounded the old man. Surely he had done something 
to offend the evil spirits. Senga growled at that so 
fiercely that the man who said it slunk to the rear of 
the crowd. Then one and another, with much head¬ 
shaking, declared that there was no question about it. 
Nothing but witchcraft could produce such a result 
over night in a perfectly well man. Somebody had 
certainly bewitched Chief Senga. 

“Very well,” growled Senga. “Then find the witch, 
and take the spell off of me.” 

“The Vitch doctor!” someone called. In a few 
moments an eager messenger had brought the witch 
doctor with his charms. 

It took him a long time to arrange all his belongings, 
Senga groaning loudly every few minutes and urging 
him to hurry. He burned things that smelled very 
bad, flourished a cow’s tail in the air, and muttered 
strange words; drew circles on the ground and 
sprinkled the broth from a kettle upon them; and 
finally declared: 

“Oh, Senga, the witch is one of thine own house¬ 
hold l” 

“I thought so,” groaned the chief. “Women can 
never wait! They were all angry because I would not 
give them their dresses last night.” 

This did not help matters very much. Thirty wives 
were angry, but not all of them could have done the 
deed. Senga was not minded to have all his wives 
put to death, as must surely be done to the witch. 


MISSIONARY MUSTARD 


71 


The witch doctor must use his skill and discover which 
one of the thirty it was. 

By this time the thirty suspects were crowded back 
of the hut, their black faces ashy gray with fear. 

‘‘He will say it is Moa,” said one, “Her brother 
would not pay him a chicken when he found his lost 
bracelet. He said the witch doctor stole and hid it, 
and that was why he could find it so easily.” 

“No, it will be Bobo,” said another. “He has never 
liked her since she made him soup with too many hot 
peppers in it, and burned his tongue.” 

The loss of the chicken must have rankled in the 
witch doctor’s memory longer than the pepper soup; 
for after a great deal more boiling and burning, waving 
and muttering, he called out the thirty, and as they 
passed before him he pointed out Moa as the guilty 
one. At sunset she must die, and the spell would be 
loosed. 

It was a bitter pill for Senga, for he really liked Moa 
best of all his wives. But as he raised his head to 
look at her a worse pain than ever shot through it. 
He roared with rage and commanded, “Let her be put 
to death at sunset!” 

Just then a new sensation attracted the noisy crowd. 

“White man! White man!” shouted a boy, racing 
through the village at top speed. He came from the 
next town, and had come to spread the alarm that 
a stranger was at hand. 

Now that the matter of Moa was settled, nobody 
had any more time for the women. Everybody but 
poor Moa, who was quickly tied inside the hut, and 
Senga, who still sat groaning, trooped off to see the 
white man. He would probably have calico to trade, 
or beads, or possibly even a flask of whiskey. 

The greetings exchanged, the crowd soon discovered 


72 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


that the white man was not a trader. He had come, 
indeed, on a very foolish errand, they thought. He 
wanted to take their boys and girls back yonder to a 
school he was starting, to “learn book.” What was 
the use of all that? they asked each other. Who knew 
what he would do with them when he got them there? 
Chief Senga was sensible; he would not let this crazy 
white person carry off their children. 

The missionary asked to see the chief. Looks of 
awe and shaken heads warned him that it was not a 
good time to ask a favor of Chief Senga. By this 
time they had reached the middle of the village, and 
the chief’s groans reached their ears. 

“Good morning, chief!” said that reckless white man, 
striding up to Senga and offering his hand. Senga only 
groaned the harder. 

“What’s the trouble here? Stiff neck?” asked the 
white man. With impressive gestures the elders told 
him that the chief had been bewitched, and the witch 
doctor’s “medicine” had just discovered the culprit. 

“When she be shot, time sun go down,” they con¬ 
cluded, “him neck live for get well!” 

“H-m!” said the missionary. “Not till sunset? Must 
poor Senga suffer all that time?” 

“That time when she make charm last night,” said 
the witch doctor solemnly. 

“Well,” said the white man, “I have some medicine 
of my own about me somewhere that I think would 
give you relief sooner than that, Chief Senga—and 
not kill the poor woman,” he added in an undertone. 
Senga heard him in spite of his groans. 

“You got strong medicine?” he inquired. The Afri¬ 
can thinks no medicine of any use unless it is bitter 
enough or hot enough to bring tears to his eyes. 

“Plenty strong,” smiled the missionary, fumbling in 


MISSIONARY MUSTARD 


73 


the bag a native companion had been carrying on his 
head. He soon produced from its depths a small box 
of mustard ointment. 

‘‘Here it is, chief,” he said. “Will you let me try 
it on you?” 

The witch doctor started forward to protest, but 
Senga waved him away. 

“You had your turn,” he said, “and I feel no better. 
Now let the white man try his medicine.” 

Some ointment was quickly spread on a cloth and 
applied to the chief’s neck and shoulder. Presently 
tears began to roll down Senga’s black cheeks, but the 
faster they rolled, the wider did his smile become. 

“It is good medicine,” he gasped. “It has a strength 
to kill elephants. Already the spell is being lifted.” 

“Just you keep that on your neck as long as you 
can stand it, chief,” advised the missionary. “Your 
neck will be better long before sunset.” 

Indeed, in less than an hour Senga was able to lift 
his head from his shoulder, not without some twinges 
and groans, but with ever-increasing ease. When the 
third application of mustard ointment had made him 
well blistered and perfectly happy, he roared of a 
sudden: 

“Set Moa loose and kick the witch doctor out of 
the village!” 

There were plenty of volunteers for both services. 
The missionary feasted that night with the chief on 
young pig and sweet potatoes, with the beaming Moa 
to wait on them; and when the white man left the 
village next day he took with him Senga’s promise of 
twenty boys and as many girls for the new school, 
some of them the chief’s own children. 

“It was worth it,” said the missionary, trudging back 


74 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


through the bush. “But I shall have to send for more 
mustard ointment. The greedy old fellow has used it, 
every bit, for the mere pleasure of feeling it burn. Half 
of it would have cured him!” 


YUSUF AND THE APRICOT TREE 


“Oh, great and wonderful doctor!” cried Mirza, 
bowing low before the missionary. “Thou hast 
given me back the life of my child, my only son! 
Praises be to Allah—no, to Issa (Jesus) !” he amended, 
remembering that the doctor was a Christian. 

“Yes,” said the missionary doctor kindly, “it is the 
merciful Jesus who has given back your son, just as 
He healed people when He was on earth.” 

“What can thy servant do to repay thee?” went on 
Mirza, in his joy. “I am thy slave forever! I kiss thy 
feet! I-” 

“Never mind, Mirza,” interrupted the doctor, who 
knew how much allowance to make for Oriental ex¬ 
aggeration. “I am sure I don’t want any slaves, and 
my shoes are much too dusty to be kissed. If you 
want to do anything to show your gratitude, do it for 
the Mission, not for me.” 

“Ah!” cried Mirza, who by this time had worked 
himself up to a high pitch of excitement. “Thou hast 
said it! To Issa will I make my vow, and thou art 
witness thereof. Behold!” 

He clutched the missionary by the arm and pulled 
him out into the courtyard. 

“See, exalted one!” he exclaimed. “Here stands the 
tree that was planted when my boy was born. As old 
as my Yusuf, even so old is his birthday tree. Now 
hear my vow. Never shall an apricot from this tree 
be tasted, except by Christians, or those to whom they 
minister! Every year, when the fruit is ripe, it shall 
be gathered with care and taken to thy hospital, most 
gracious one. There shall thy patients eat the fruit, 
75 



76 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


and thou also; or, if thou prefer, sell it and use the 
profit thereof for thy sick. I have said it!” 

“Why, Mirza,” said the doctor, touched by the little 
man's earnestness, “that is really a fine gift. It is a 
beautiful, healthy tree, and I have no doubt its fruit 
will bring much refreshment to my sick people. In 
their name, and that of my Master, I gladly accept the 
gift.” 

But Mirza was not through. The doctor’s apprecia¬ 
tion had fired him with ambition to win still greater 
praise. 

“And behold, O healer of the sick,” he went on, 
swelling his small form with vast importance, “that 
is but the lesser part of my vow! When my son, my 
Yusuf, whose life thou hast restored, is come to the 
age of seven years, then shall he go, even my son, to 
thy Mission, to be trained as a teacher of the Gospel 
of Issa. This I swear-” 

“Hold on there, Mirza!” exclaimed the doctor in 
alarm. “The apricots were all very well, but don’t 
promise more than you will be willing to pay. Yusuf 
is your only child, and when you have lived past your 
present excitement you may regret-” 

“No, no!” shouted Mirza, fairly dancing in his eager¬ 
ness. “I swear it by the beard of the Prophet—no, by 
the splendor of Solomon—I will give you my son to 
be a Christian teacher! I vow it, by all that is sacred. 
I will not regret it! From the day he is seven, which 
is now but two years away, he is thine, to train for 
the work. All good angels, witness my vow!” 

The whole household, except the sick boy, had by 
this time crowded into the courtyard to hear what 
was going on. Mirza took them all to be witnesses of 
his fixed intention concerning the boy. The mother of 
Yusuf wept and wailed, but he bade her be silent. As 




YUSUF AND THE APRICOT TREE 


77 


soon as possible the doctor escaped, leaving Mirza 
embracing the apricot tree and shouting his vow to 
the planets, the sun, the moon, and all the heavenly 
bodies. 

Yusuf quickly grew strong, and was playing once 
more about the courtyard. 

“What a boy he is!” said Mirza as he watched him 
at his play. “How fine in body, how bright in mind! 
Surely, no other boy of five was ever so manly, so 
brilliant, so handsome. Truly, it is a great gift I have 
vowed to the Christians’ God! Ah, well, two years are 
a long time!” 

But the two years passed more quickly than Mirza 
had thought. Once, twice, he had harvested the apri¬ 
cots and sent them to the hospital. Both times it had 
been a comparatively small crop, for the tree was 
still young, and its earliest blossoms had all been 
pinched off to make the fruit grow larger and more 
perfect. 

The third year, just before the birthday of Yusuf, 
was a marvelous time for the apricot tree. It hung 
loaded with golden fruit, as large as a peach, and so 
fragrant that Mirza’s mouth watered at the odor. 

“Allah has rewarded my generosity,” he said. “There 
is far more fruit here than the people at the hospital 
can possibly use. The sign is a good one; it means 
that I am to keep part for myself, and not be a loser 
because of my gratitude.” 

So he ordered a basket of the fruit picked and taken 
to the hospital, as usual. It was twice as large a basket 
as either time before, and yet the tree looked hardly 
less full when it had been taken away. All the rest 
did the prudent Mirza sell to a dealer, who paid him 
a price that made his greedy old eyes glisten. 


78 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“So Allah rewards his servants,” he said piously, 
fingering the money with great enjoyment. 

Somehow Mirza did not make much of an observ¬ 
ance of Yusuf’s birthday that year. “He is still so 
young,” he mused. “I should have said ten years, in¬ 
stead of seven. How will he do without his mother’s 
care? And how will I do without him?” he groaned, 
watching the boy tossing and catching a ball in the 
sunlight. The missionary’s parting words, after he had 
made his vow, came back to him again. 

“Now remember, Mirza,” he had said, “nobody asked 
you to make this vow, or would even have dreamed 
of doing so. But, without being asked, you have made 
it of your own accord, before God and all these wit¬ 
nesses, and you will keep that vow, or God will cause 
you to remember it. ‘It is better that thou shouldest 
not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay/ 
He says, and He keeps His word.” 

Mirza trembled, but still he said nothing about send¬ 
ing Yusuf to the Mission. All the household loved 
the boy and hoped his father would forget to send him 
away; so nobody spoke to him about it. Things went 
on just as usual, except that Mirza, when he walked 
abroad, always took another turn when he saw the 
doctor coming. 

So the season of harvest passed, and another spring 
was beginning to whiten the fruit trees with blossoms, 
when one morning Mirza heard loud lamentations in 
the courtyard. Running out in fear that something 
had happened to Yusuf, he found that young man 
weeping under the apricot tree. 

“My tree, father! Look at my tree! All the other 
trees are in blossom, and mine is dead!” 

Mirza looked at the tree. Truly, there was no sign 
of bud or leaf about it. He broke a twig—no token of 
life! It was brown and brittle, with no sign of rising 


YUSUF AND THE APRICOT TREE 


79 


sap. In alarm, he broke a larger branch. A dry, pow¬ 
dery dust arose from it. Hoarsely he called for an 
axe and chopped off one of the main boughs. There 
was no doubt about it—the tree was dead. 

Mirza left Yusuf soothing his grief by chopping at 
the lifeless trunk. He went into his own apartments 
and shut the door. There he sat down and thought 
a long time; and his thoughts were not pleasant ones. 

That evening as the sun was near its setting a little 
procession climbed the hill to the Mission house. It 
consisted of an elderly man, somewhat red about the 
eyes, holding by the hand an awed and silent small 
boy; and after them a servant bore a little trunk. 

“I have brought thee my son, most honorable one,” 
said Mirza, standing very humbly and swallowing 
hard between words. “He is now past the age of seven 
years, and he is thine, even as I said. The apricots 
will come to thee no more; for I cheated thy God, who 
is mine also from this day, and He took away the 
tree in its prime. Oh/’ with a break in his voice that 
set Yusuf to sobbing quietly, “take him, in Issa’s 
name, that he be not also taken away from me! Let 
him not die, like the tree, but live many years and 
serve well the Christ, who is my Lord and thine.” 

So that is how the young teacher, Yusuf ben Mirza, 
came, like Samuel, in his boyhood, to the house of the 
Lord; and there he now teaches many to know the 
loving Christ, who may blight a tree, as once He did 
on earth, for a message to the soul of a man, but never 
casts out any who come to Him to be forgiven. 


BROKEN BOWLS 

The hour of the mid-day meal had brought a brief 
space of rest to the weary women and girls who 
worked in one of the rice-bowl factories of Osaka, 
Japan. Aching feet and backs enjoyed a change of 
position, and busy tongues clacked faster than busy 
hands had worked a few moments before, while the 
simple meal was eaten. 

“Noshi has had one of her tantrums again, has she 
not?” inquired a girl, coming from one group to 
another, and sitting down beside a friend. 

“She broke four bowls this morning,” said the other, 
with a shrug of her thin shoulders. “Of course, she 
said it was an accident, and we know she will not be 
punished because the forewoman is her mother’s 
cousin. But everybody knows it was just her temper 
that made her do it. She was angry at us because 
we teased her. She hates to be teased about her lame 
foot; and it is mean of us to do it, but it is fun to see 
her smash the bowls. When you stand all day with 
nothing to think about but the packing of rice bowls, 
and the dust from the straw packing gets into your 
throat and makes you cough, you must do something 
for a change.” 

“I broke one myself this morning because I was 
angry,” confessed the first speaker. “Suzuki told the 
others that I slept on the floor, because we were too 
poor to buy beds. The imp of evil,—when she knows 
my mother has three beautiful beds! She was at our 
house one night when it rained too hard for her to 
go home, and she knows very well what we have.” 

“Well, it’s just as I said,” replied the other girl. 
“We get so tired and stupid that if we have nothing 
80 


BROKEN BOWLS 


81 


else to say we make up lies. I think all the evil spirits 
must live in factories, and get into us when we are 
not watching.” 

“If it were not for my little sister,” said her friend, 
“I often think I would go and jump down a well 
somewhere. She is so bright, and wants so badly to 
go to school, that I am working as hard as I can to get 
a little money so that she can go. I wish I could 
have gone, but it is too late for that now,” she ended, 
with a sigh. 

“Look!” said the other, noticing a stir at the other 
end of the room. “Who are the strangers that are 
coming in?” 

“They look like foreigners,” said the first, raising 
herself on her knees to look. “Yes, that is the American 
lady who teaches the Sunday school my sister goes 
to. She is very kind and good, the children say. The 
other one must be the new teacher who came last 
week; I never saw her before. I wonder what they 
are going to do!” 

They had not long to wait. Presently the sound 
of a hymn floated out over the hushed crowd of girls. 
It was about somebody named Jesus—only “Yesu” 
is more like the sound of it in Japanese—who loved 
people and told tired folks to come to Him and rest. 
Many a weary young face softened as they listened 
to the gentle words. 

Then the lady who taught the Sunday school told 
a beautiful story about that same Jesus—how He 
went about healing sick and blind and lame people, 
and teaching everybody to be kind to others. Noshi 
glanced down at her crippled foot with longing in her 
eyes, and the girls who had teased her looked uncom¬ 
fortable. 

After the little talk was over and the strangers had 


82 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


gone, more than one girl was quiet and thoughtful. 
Mischievous Suzuki slipped over to the girl she had 
teased and whispered quickly, “I’m sorry, Oyuki!” 
just before the signal for work was given and she had 
to go back to her task. 

“I wonder if they will come again,” said many a 
girl to another. The rest of that day they had some¬ 
thing new to think about, and work went faster, some¬ 
how, than it had before. 

They did come again, and again, and again. Not 
every day, but once or twice a week the mission school 
teachers held their little service, sometimes assisted 
by one or two of the larger girls from the school. After 
a little even the days on which they did not come were 
not without a bit of song; for the girls had quickly 
learned the hymns they heard and would sing them in 
a chorus that had new voices added to it every day. 
And soon the Mission people found out who could 
read and gave them copies of a little book that told 
the Jesus-story from beginning to end. Then the lunch 
hour would see little groups of girls seated around a 
reader here and there, listening to the story of which 
they never grew tired. 

Nobody knew just when Noshi stopped having 
tantrums, but more than once she said, “Everybody 
is so kind to me now that I could not get angry if I 
wanted to.” Oyuki never thought about the well any 
more, because she had learned about a beautiful place 
where she would live with Jesus some day, if she were 
patient till He asked her to come. Fun-loving Suzuki 
had learned to read and tell the Jesus-story so well 
that the Mission teachers asked her to come and help 
in the Sunday school, where nobody could hold the 
attention of the beginners as well as she. 

The owner of the factory was not a Christian, and 


BROKEN BOWLS 


83 


when first he let the Mission people come in to tell 
their story he did it only to please a friend who was 
interested in the Mission school. But after a year had 
passed and the fruits of those little noon-day talks 
began to appear, he did a very remarkable thing. He 
wrote a letter to a Japanese magazine, advising other 
factory owners to let their workers be taught the 
Jesus-story. 

“During the twelve months since the missionaries 
began coming to the factory,” he wrote, “a thousand 
less rice bowls were broken than the year before, 
because there is less bad temper among the girls who 
hear the Christian teaching.” 

“Indeed,” says Noshi—and many others say it with 
her—“I hardly know how it sounds to break a bowl 
any more. I think the hymns we sing sound much 
better!” 


THE WAY OF THE SHINING FACE 


“Oto,” said the white man sternly, “where in the 
world are you and Mapuhi going?” 

It was many years since the missionary had first 
come to the Solomon Islands—the “terrible Solomons,” 
where the headhunters and cannibals had things all 
their own way before the gospel came among them. 
He had lived to see great changes there. Even the 
heathen islanders no longer celebrated their human 
feasts on the open beach; evil had slunk farther and 
farther away from the light, as it always does when 
good comes in. Yet there were many heathen prac¬ 
tices still remaining; and the faithful white teacher 
could never hear the native drum calling the people 
to a dance without fear for his Christian converts. 
Would they be drawn back into the darkness again? 

Now the summons had gone out for a great heathen 
festival. From the mission veranda he could see group 
after group of savages, decked with anklets, armlets, 
and head dresses of nodding, many-colored plumes, 
gathering down on the beach. It was a beautiful pic¬ 
ture, with the gayly dressed natives moving about on 
the curving beach, its coral sands showing white as 
snow against the deep blue background of a tropical 
sea, and the green palms waving against a bluer sky. 

But it did not look fair to the troubled eyes of the 
missionary. Perhaps some of his latest converts were 
there—too newly won to be strong, as yet, in their 
faith, too easily persuaded by friends and relatives to 
join them once more in what they would claim was 
84 


THE WAY OF THE SHINING FACE 


85 


a farewell celebration. It would not be the old-time 
cannibal feast, indeed; but there would be evil enough 
in it, and every kind of base superstition, to draw the 
new Christians away from their faith and make them 
worship the old gods again. 

Now, as he watched the groups, there came two 
men among them who did not look like the rest. No 
plumes of gaudy feathers tossed above their heads; 
no anklets jingled as they walked. Plainly dressed 
in white, they walked quietly side by side to the beach. 
They were two of the native Christians—deacons in 
the little mission church. Why were they going to 
the dance? 

They stopped quickly as the missionary hailed them. 
There was no shame on their faces, no confusion upon 
their tongues as they replied: 

“We go down to the dance on the beach.” 

“But why-?” The missionary’s words failed him. 

Was he going to lose the first and finest of all his 
converts, the men he had trusted as his own right 
hand? 

“Sir,” said Oto, seeing the white man’s distress, “I 
will tell you about it. Today the dance is a great one; 
there has been none like it for many years. All the 
tribes of many islands will be there; and the great 
chief, Tanoa, will sit at the head. You know, we have 
been praying a long time that Tanoa would see the 
light and come to believe with us. So we go to the 
dance; and if the Lord gives us speech we will ask 
Tanoa to hear us in His Name!” 

The dark face of Oto was bright with hope as he 
finished, and his look was reflected on that of Mapuhi. 
But the missionary shook his head. 

“Is there no other way, my brothers?” he asked. 
“Can I not go instead? Surely it is my place to speak 
to Tanoa, if speaking must be done.” 



86 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“You do not trust us!” said Mapuhi quickly. He 
was of a hastier temper than Oto, and he felt sus¬ 
picion in the missionary’s words. “You fear we will 
go back to the old gods. You teach us that Christ 
will keep us safe anywhere, and then you fear to have 
us even see the dancing!” 

Oto interrupted him, with a softer tone. 

“It is ours to go,” he said. “Tanoa will hear his own 
people rather than a stranger. Once a white man did 
him great wrong, and he fears and hates a white face 
now. We will not forget the God you have taught us 
to know, dear sir.” 

The missionary’s hands went out to both of them. 

“Forgive me!” he said. “Your hearts are right, and 
I was wrong to fear for you. May He go with you and 
teach you what to say!” 

Many heads were turned to look as the two Chris¬ 
tians entered the circle already beginning to sit down 
on the beach about the carved wooden bowls, filled 
with pounded cocoanuts and yams for the feast. No 
men of the islands were more honored than Oto and 
Mapuhi; for they had built themselves what the 
natives regarded as very fine houses, since the white 
man had come and taught them his ways. Besides, 
they were known as men of strict honor and as neigh¬ 
bors who were always ready to help when any one 
was in trouble. Their presence at the dance made 
quite a sensation; but no one was bold enough to ask 
what brought them there. 

Tanoa himself cast many curious glances at them as 
they sat among the gayly adorned savages, eating 
moderately of the food that was handed to them. He 
had never been able to understand what such men 
could see in the new religion—one that had neither 
feasts nor dances, that taught people to be quiet and 


THE WAY OF THE SHINING FACE 


87 


peaceable, and to forgive their enemies instead of tak¬ 
ing their heads off. Again and again he looked at 
them, and it seemed as though a new light began to 
dawn in his eyes. 

Greatly to the surprise of his people, when the meal 
was ending and the drums began to sound for the 
dance, Tanoa held up a hand glistening with orna¬ 
ments, and stopped the musicians. A moment he sat 
undecided; then, with a sudden movement, he rose and 
stepped into the circle. 

Straight over to Oto and Mapuhi he walked. All 
the people held their breath. Was he going to punish 
the Christians for having forsaken their gods, or 
welcome them back again? Oto and Mapuhi rose as 
he approached, and stood respectfully waiting. 

Then the old chief spoke out clearly, so that every¬ 
body heard in all the listening crowd. 

“Oto and Mapuhi,” he said, “followers of the new 
God, I want you to pray for me. Pray strong for me, 
my friends! I want you to pray for my people, too, 
and bring them to your church to learn about your 
God. ,, 

A murmur rose from the crowd, but another wave 
of the jeweled hand quieted it. 

“I look at the people like you, who call themselves 
Christians,” he went on, “and I see the faces of all 
of you shining as if your hearts were happy. My 
people are not like that.” He swung around and 
viewed the gaudily dressed circle with disapproval. 
“They look heavy, and their eyes are dull. Their faces 
do not shine. Once you were like that, too; you lived 
like us and prayed to the evil spirits. But I see you 
have found a better way. 

“Your way is the Way of the Shining Face! I want 
to come and learn about that God you pray to, that 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


makes your faces shine; and my people shall learn, 
too, so that all of us may know that God. You all 
pray strong for me!” 

The missionary on his veranda leaped up, a few 
minutes later, and ran down the steps. Up from the 
beach the many-colored crowd was streaming toward 
the Mission. In the midst were two white-clad figures. 
His first thought was that they were bringing the 
Christians to torture and kill them before his eyes. 

Then he saw that a tall, jewel-decked figure walked 
between Oto and Mapuhi, holding a hand of each. He 
walked quickly to meet them; and as he drew near, 
Tanoa stepped forward and greeted him with the 
salutation used only by one chief to another. 

“White brother/’ he said, “we have come, I and my 
people, to learn of you the Way of the Shining Face.” 


THE BREAKING OF THE STONE-GOD 


Along the road that led to a little village in Central 
Japan, a man was steadily trudging. On his back was 
a large pack of something that appeared to be heavy. 

“Only a little farther,” he said to himself, shifting 
the pack on his shoulders. “This is a good time to 
reach the village, for it is almost sunset, and the 
farmers are all coming in from their patches. I shall 
meet them at some place where they can stop to chat.” 

Sure enough, as he entered the village a little group 
of men stood around a well near the center of the little 
hamlet, exchanging the day’s gossip about crops and 
weather. Dark-eyed children, who had run to meet 
them, gathered the hoes and rakes the tired farmers 
had dropped, and rode “horseback” gayly on their 
handles. Women peeped out of their doors to see how 
soon the master of the house would be ready for his 
supper. The newcomer had his audience for what he 
wanted to say. 

It was not long before they spied him coming along 
the street. 

“Ho, friend, your burden is heavy,” cried good- 
natured farmer Matsu. “You should rest and have a 
cool drink before you go on.” 

The man with the pack unbuckled a strap that held 
it, and eased it willingly from his tired shoulders to 
the ground. 

“I am Kiyoshi Tanaka, from Kobe,” he said. “I am 
traveling with this pack to visit many villages and to 
give the people a chance to buy for themselves the 
greatest treasure in the world.” 

Some of the women from the adjoining houses began 
to edge nearer to see what treasure this peddler had 
89 


90 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


to dispose of. The children were already fingering the 
buckles of the pack. 

Tanaka opened it in the presence of a curious circle 
of onlookers. A sigh of disappointment went up from 
some of the women, and the children went back to 
their play, when they saw that it contained nothing 
but books. 

“A strange treasure, indeed,” said Matsu, laughing. 
“What makes the little books so precious, friend?” 

“This is a message,” said Tanaka, “from the great 
God who lives in heaven. It is written to tell us that 
we are all His children, and to teach us how to live 
as the children of God ought to. Everything we need 
to know is written in this book.” 

A stir among the listeners began to agitate the circle, 
and a sharp-faced little man pushed to the front. 

“You say this book tells everything we need to 
know about the God of heaven, and all things that are 
good?” he inquired, thrusting his ferret face close to 
Tanaka. 

“Yes,” replied the stranger. 

“Then, no doubt,” said the little man, “it will explain 
to us about the stone-god who lives in our village.” 

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the crowd. “Show him the 
stone-god, Nichi, and see if his book can tell us where 
it came from, and why it is angry with us?” 

The whole crowd joined in escorting Tanaka to see 
the stone-god. Some of the mothers called their 
children to come back, fearing the stone-god would 
hurt them; but very little attention was paid to these 
warnings. The procession soon reached the outskirts 
of the village; and Tanaka saw a large oddly shaped 
stone lying on the ground. A fence had been built 
around it, and he noticed that even the little boys kept 
at a safe distance from it. 


THE BREAKING OF THE STONE GOD 


91 


“Some years ago,” explained Nichi, “there was a 
great noise one night, as of many thousand fire¬ 
crackers going off at once. Some people, who were 
not afraid to look out, said they saw a fiery path in the 
heavens that faded out as they looked. Next day this 
stone lay where you see it. 

“Of course nobody wanted to meddle with it because 
it looked as if some god were very angry, to send it 
in such a way. Those who did touch it always had 
some illness or very bad fortune soon afterward. 

“There was one young man in the village who 
would never believe in the power of the stone-god. It 
is not long since he came out here to show us that 
he was not afraid of it. He even put his foot on it!” 
A shudder of fear ran over the crowd. “Soon after, 
he became sick in his feet; and now he sits in his 
father’s house and cannot walk one step! You may 
see him back here in the village.” More shivers and 
groans of sympathy from the crowd. 

“So after that,” concluded Nichi, “we put this fence 
around the stone so that no one might touch it and be 
harmed. Now, stranger, can your wonderful book 
tell us about the stone, and why the god who dwells 
in it is so angry and wants to do us harm?” 

Tanaka was leafing rapidly over one of the little 
Bibles. 

“No,” he said, “there is nothing in here about gods 
who live in stones, because there is but one true God, 
and He lives in the heavens. And if men live as He 
commands, and trust Him as dear children, no stone 
or anything else will hurt them. Listen!” and he 
read aloud from the fifth chapter of Job: 

“ ‘For thou shalt be in league with the stones of the 
field; and the beasts of the field shall be at peace with 
thee.’ ” 


92 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


‘‘And do you believe in that God?” asked Nichi 
craftily. 

“Certainly I do,” replied Tanaka. 

“Then the stone will not hurt you; and if you truly 
believe in your God, you will touch it and not be 
harmed,” said Nichi, with an evil gleam in his small 
eyes. 

“No, no!” broke in good old Matsu, who had been 
listening with a troubled look on his broad face. “Send 
not the young man to his hurt, Nichi! He has done us 
no harm, and he is a well-spoken youth.” 

But Tanaka was already laying off his coat and 
preparing to swing himself over the fence. 

“Stop, friend!” cried Matsu, laying hold of him. But 
Tanaka drew his arm gently away. 

“He has challenged my God,” he answered, “and I 
must show him that I mean what I have said.” 

There was breathless silence as Tanaka vaulted the 
fence and stood beside the stone. A scientist would 
have guessed at once, both from its history and from 
its porous appearance, that it was but a piece of slag 
dropped by an exploding meteor; the harm it had done 
had been wrought by the nervous fears of the super¬ 
stitious villagers. 

Tanaka laid his hands on the stone. “It is cracked 
already,” he said. Picking up another stone from the 
ground, he hammered the meteorite, breaking off a 
large piece. After examining it coolly he threw it over 
the fence into the stream that ran on the other side. 
Another piece followed, and another. 

“Doesn’t it hurt you?” asked Matsu anxiously. 

“Nobody but the stone is getting hurt,” Tanaka 
assured him. 

“But wait!” cried Nichi. “In a few days you will 
have great pain in your hands, and maybe you can 
never use them any more.” 


THE BREAKING OF THE STONE GOD 


93 


‘Til be back this way in a few weeks/’ laughed 
Tanaka. “If there is anything wrong with my hands 
by that time you may believe in your stone-god!” 

And he did come back, safe and sound, and sold 
many Bibles in that village. 

“You did a fine thing,” said Matsu, buying books 
for all his sons and their children. “The fence is gone, 
and we have thrown the old stone into the river. Now 
we want to hear no more about the stone-god, but 
about the Heaven-God who takes care of us all and 
makes us fear nothing. That is the God for me!” 


THE BOOK THAT TOLD THE TRUTH 


“But there is one thing yet we need, Radama!” 

The new hut was finished. Radama had worked very 
hard to get it ready for his little bride. He stood sur¬ 
veying it now with great satisfaction, until her words 
brought a shadow of surprise across his beaming face. 

“What is that, Fantaka?” he asked quickly. “I 
thought I had all that you could need. Do you wish 
another mat, or a larger cooking pot?” 

“No, Radama,” said the bride, touching his arm 
timidly and pointing to an empty corner of the little 
hut. “It is that we have yet no god for our home; and 
see, what a fine place to put one!” 

Radama’s face brightened again. “I did not forget 
the god, little wife,” he said. “I thought I would wait 
till we might go together and order one from the idol- 
maker, such as would suit you best. Well I know, as 
you do also, that no home can be complete without its 
household god, and prayers offered daily, with food 
and drink set before him, so that all we do may be 
prospered. Tomorrow we will go and get Bezano to 
make us a fine large god to put there in the corner.” 

“That will be good,” said Fantaka, her little brown 
face glowing with pleasure. Then, with all the pride 
of a young housekeeper, she set about preparing their 
first supper; and Radama followed her about, helping 
a little and hindering a great deal; for newly-married 
couples are much the same in Madagascar as in 
America, after all. 

Next evening the young husband and wife set out 
gayly to the house of Bezano, the idol maker. 

“We want a large one,” said Radama. 

“And a god with a kind face,” said Fantaka. “These 
94 


THE BOOK THAT TOLD THE TRUTH 


95 


are ugly!” she whispered aside to Radama, pointing 
to the idols that stood or lay around the room. 

“I have no block large enough for such a god as 
you want,” said Bezano as Radama indicated the 
height with his hand. “Come again in a week, and I 
will have one ready and make the god just as you 
want him.” 

Bezano really meant to keep his word to Radama, 
who was known as an industrious young man and 
would probably be able to pay well for his idol. Be¬ 
sides, the eager face of little Fantaka had touched his 
old heart, and he had already determined to make her 
a smiling god instead of a frowning one. But he was 
a busy man, and in filling other orders forgot his 
promise. 

So when the week had passed and Radama came 
home from his work in the evening, he found Fan¬ 
taka shedding a few tears. 

“I passed the shop of Bezano today,” she said, “and 
asked him if our god was ready, and he had not even 
got the block for it yet.” 

“Never mind,” said Radama. “Tomorrow I have a 
holiday, and we will go and tell Bezano that we want 
our god at once; and we will just stay and watch him 
make it.” 

Bezano was very apologetic when the young couple 
came the next morning. “See,” he said, “I will go out 
at once to the forest and cut the log; you may go with 
me, if you will, and choose a proper tree. Then I will 
make the god for you at once.” 

It was like a little picnic, going out to the forest 
with the old man and helping him bring home the 
block he had cut from the tree of their selection. Fan¬ 
taka forgot she was a sedate married woman, and 
gathered wild flowers to twine in her hair and sang 


96 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


happy songs, so that Radama admired her more than 
ever, and Bezano resolved anew to make her the 
kindest-looking idol he possibly could. 

Back in the workshop they chatted happily while 
they watched the chips fly and the god take shape. 
It took a long time to make so large a figure, though 
the work was very crude and Bezano’s hand was 
practiced in such things. Evening was falling when 
the idol was finished, and the twilight chill was creep¬ 
ing into the little shop. 

“Stay and eat supper with me,” urged old Bezano, 
gathering a handful of chips from the floor to kindle 
a fire. Fantaka drew near to the friendly blaze, and 
held out her cold hands to be warmed, while Bezano 
quickly put rice into the pot and soon had it cooking 
over the fire. 

When supper was over, Radama proudly carried 
the idol home, after paying Bezano a sum equal to 
about two dollars. They had to kindle their own fire 
to see sufficiently to place the god in his corner. Then 
they lay down peacefully to sleep, assured that their 
house was safe under the idol’s protection. 

The wooden god lived a happy life for many days. 
Not only the best of the rice and palm oil was always 
offered to him, but Fantaka made garlands of fresh 
flowers every day to hang around his neck, and Ra¬ 
dama built a fine shelf for him to stand on so that his 
feet never need rest on the floor. Never an idol was 
better cared for, even in the homes of the rich. He 
was the young couple’s chief treasure. 

One day an old friend called at their house. 

“I am very glad to see you, Ranivo,” said Fantaka. 
“I remember well when you lived in our village, and 
we were little girls and played together. Tell me all 
about yourself and what you have been doing all this 
time.” 


THE BOOK THAT TOLD THE TRUTH 


97 


Ranivo told much of the life she had lived for some 
years in a large town; but most of all she spoke of a 
school she had attended, where white teachers showed 
her how to read out of a book. 

“What! Can you make a book talk?” asked Fantaka. 
“How I would like to hear it! Have you a book of 
your own, Ranivo, and can you make it speak to 
people, as the white men do?” 

“Yes,” said Ranivo. “Would you like to hear me, 
Fantaka?” And she drew from the folds of her dress 
a little Bible. With just a glance at the big idol in 
the corner, she turned to the forty-fourth chapter of 
Isaiah and began to read the description of the making 
of an idol. Fantaka listened breathlessly. 

“The carpenter stretcheth out a line—he shapeth it 
after the figure of a man, according to the beauty of 
a man, to dwell in a house.” Fantaka, too, glanced at 
the idol. “He heweth him down cedars”—yes, so they 
had done, that day in the forest. “He taketh thereof, 
and warmeth himself”—she could almost feel the 
pleasant warmth rising from the chips to her chilled 
fingers, there in Bezano’s shop. “Yea, he kindleth it, 
and baketh bread”—Bezano had cooked rice with it! 
“Yea, he maketh a god, and worshippeth it; he maketh 
it a graven image, and falleth down thereto.” And 
then he went on to say to the image, “Deliver me; for 
thou art my god.” 

Then the reader went on to tell how all this praying 
to an idol was in vain; how the wood that was carved 
into the idol was just the same as the chips that fed 
the fire and cooked the food, and that it could not help 
or save. 

Fantaka was very serious that night. Radama won¬ 
dered when he saw that she offered no rice to the idol. 
The next day she made no fresh garlands to hang upon 


98 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


it; and day by day she looked at it with less respect. 
Ranivo was staying in the village, teaching a little 
school of children she had gathered; and Fantaka went 
often to hear her read from the book. 

One night she said to Radama, “Ranivo is going to 
make her book speak to some of the neighbors. Let 
us go and hear her.” 

It was the same chapter that Ranivo read that night. 
When they went home Radama said gently to Fan¬ 
taka, “Now I know why the god in the corner gets 
no more rice or garlands.” 

“Oh, Radama,” said his wife, “the book speaks 
truth! As soon as I heard it I knew it was true; and 
I could not worship the image any more. Let me put 
him away and learn of the true God whom Ranivo tells 
about.” 

And Radama said, “I will go with you, Fantaka.” 


UNCLE SAM’S NEW SHOES 

'‘That picture Uncle Sam?” inquired a deep voice, 
with a tone of anxiety. 

The government agent, who was also storekeeper of 
the little Alaskan town, turned around. He was getting 
used to the childish ideas of the Eskimos, though at 
first he had found it hard to understand them. 

It was hard work for them to understand, too, that 
their country had been bought by the United States. 
They had no idea of a government by President and 
Congress; but when the agent spoke of “Uncle Sam” 
and showed them the well-known figure in its costume 
of stars and stripes, they took for granted that this 
was the person who had purchased Alaska and who 
sent the supplies which were given out to them at the 
little store. 

Mr. Carroll, the government agent, was very fond 
of sticking up pictures around the store. When the 
comic papers came from the States he cut out some 
of the funniest cartoons and put them on the walls. 

“I need something to make me laugh,” he said to 
himself. “This is the coldest, lonesomest, gloomiest 
country in winter-time that I ever saw; and these 
fur-wearing, greasy Eskimos are precious little com¬ 
pany. I don’t see what Uncle Sam wanted of them, 
anyway; I’d give all their society for one white man 
I could talk politics with.” 

Now he turned idly at the voice of his customer 
and found a short, stocky figure in furs standing before 
the latest cartoon he had posted on the wall. 

“That picture Uncle Sam?” asked the Eskimo again, 
pointing a stubby finger at the cartoon. It showed a 
lank figure in a pitiable condition; the long features 
99 


100 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


and straggling beard of Uncle Sam rose above a 
shabby suit, patched in many places; and at the bot¬ 
tom appeared a pair of bare feet below the hems of 
trousers that were much too short. Altogether it was 
a picture to make anybody shiver in the cold of an 
Alaskan winter. It was the artist’s idea of the poverty 
the country was coming to if some bill or other should 
be passed by Congress; but to the Eskimo it was Uncle 
Sam himself in sorry plight. 

“Oh, yes! That’s Uncle Sam,” said the agent rather 
wearily. He got tired of talking to these childish 
people. “Looks like he’s pretty hard up, doesn’t it?” 

“Uncle Sam got no shoes?” persisted the man. 

“Not a sign of ’em,” declared the agent jokingly. 
“Cold weather to go barefoot, isn’t it?” 

The Eskimo grunted, wrapped his blanket about 
him, took a last serious look at the picture, and stalked 
out into the snowy darkness. 

There was much excitement in a certain Eskimo 
hut that night. The fur-clad wife and the plump 
babies listened with eyes large and round, as the head 
of the family told what he had seen in the store. 

“Uncle Sam send us flour, send us bacon, send us 
much thing,” he told them. “Uncle Sam take care of 
us, not let nobody hurt us. Mr. Carroll say so, many 
time. Now Uncle Sam poor, very poor. Got no fur 
coat”—all the black eyes rolled in astonishment—“got 
no cap, only old hat”—still greater surprise—“ got no 
shoes. Feet all bare!” 

No words could express the horror of the family at 
this dreadful state of affairs. The little wife rose from 
her seat by the fire and began to rummage about in 
the hut. 

Presently she came back with a piece of the softest 
doeskin in her hand. Her husband, with a grunt of 


uncle's sam’s new shoes 


101 


approval, caught it from her and began to turn it 
about, as if guessing at its measurements. Next she 
brought out a box of colored glass beads and a rude 
painting outfit, also needles and thread and a large 
knife. 

It was too late that night to do anything but plan; 
but they put their heads close together over the fire 
while they debated about colors and designs. 

Two days later the agent looked up from his ac¬ 
counts as the door of the store flew open and his 
Eskimo visitor again appeared. He walked to the 
counter and laid down a bundle, waiting for Mr. Car- 
roll to open it. 

The agent unwrapped it, and there was a beautiful 
pair of moccasins. The doeskin was soft as velvet, the 
beading and painting made them a perfect rainbow of 
the loveliest colors. The agent, who had seen many 
pairs of moccasins, rubbed his eyes and looked again. 
He had never seen so fine a pair. 

“Uncle Sam got no shoes/' explained his caller. “Me 
and my wife take two days make these for him. Send 
them to Uncle Sam.” 

“Sure I will!” declared the agent heartily. “It’s 
mighty good of you to make ’em for him. Now, just 
wait a bit.” 

From the stores on the shelves he quickly chose pro¬ 
visions amounting to at least double the value of the 
moccasins, and loaded the generous Eskimo with pack¬ 
ages. There was great feasting in the little hut, while 
the family talked over the probable joy and surprise 
of Uncle Sam when the moccasins arrived. 

“Well, I’m beat!” said the agent, sitting down to 
take another long look at the moccasins. “I declare 
if I ever thought these fellows would believe that 
picture was real! Poor Uncle Sam, they were sorry 
for him! 


102 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“I guess I won’t worry so much for a white man 
around, after this. I wonder how many of the men 
that sit on store boxes and talk politics back in the 
States would do that much for Uncle Sam if they 
thought he was barefoot? 

“People like these are worth trying to help, after all. 
I guess they’ll make good citizens, if they don’t learn 
too much about badness from the rest of us. Uncle 
Sam wasn’t such a dunce, anyway, when he bought up 
this country!” 


THE SCHOOLING OF MALAMOA 


Two dusky figures—one bent with age, the other 
slender and supple—crouched over the ashes of a dy¬ 
ing fire, in the twilight of one of the great forests of 
Africa. 

“Tomorrow, Malamoa,” spoke the wrinkled old 
black woman, “will be the great feast of our tribe. 
Then many warriors will take new wives out of the 
captives we have taken in war. You are fortunate, 
girl, for no less a warrior than Mombo, our king, has 
chosen you to be his wife. Early in the morning you 
must rise and put on all your beads and make yourself 
fine with flowers, for Mombo will wish his bride to be 
adorned as a great chiefs wife should be.” 

The girl sat sullenly staring into the fire. Again the 
old woman spoke, and the soft African speech sounded 
harsher on her lips. 

“Do you hear what I say, Malamoa?” 

“Yes, I hear,” said Malamoa drearily. “Mombo has 
many wives already. What shall I be but a slave to all 
of them, Zembe?” 

“If you are clever,” whispered Zembe, bending near¬ 
er, “you may get to be head-wife and rule all the 
others. Mombo likes cleverness, and you have it. You 
can be of great use to him, and he will take you with 
him on all his travels; for you can speak five African 
languages already, and may learn more.” 

“Yes, and how did I learn them?” asked Malamoa, 
sitting upright and speaking bitterly. “When I was 
just a little child, living with my mother in her grass 
house, there came a party of warriors who were ene¬ 
mies of my father. They were not strong enough to 

103 


104 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


attack our whole village, but they hid in the long 
grass near our hut and watched. Then my mother 
gave me the water jar to fill at the river, and while 
I walked singing through the grass those bad men 
rose up and caught me. They bound my mouth so 
that I could not cry, and for revenge on my father 
they carried me away, for I was a strong and healthy 
child, and when grown I would be worth many goats. 

“Three times I was sold, and each time I brought a 
larger price. Many suns I have lived the life of a 
slave; I have walked more miles than I can count, bent 
under heavy loads that my masters placed on my back. 
I learned their speech, for it was my only defence; if 
I did not know what they said to me I would be beaten 
for disobedience. 

“Now Mombo will make me his slave. I must travel 
more weary miles, and learn more hateful languages. 
I am to be grateful, and dress myself in flowers, be¬ 
cause I am to enter on a life like that. No, Zembe, I 
will not!” 

“Then Mombo will kill you, foolish girl,” said old 
Zembe. “What will you do when his anger comes 
down on you like a storm on the forest?” 

“I am not going to be here when his anger comes 
down,” said Malamoa coolly. “I am going to run away 
tonight.” 

Zembe raised her hands in horror. 

“Run away? And where will you run that Mombo 
will not find you?” 

“I care little where,” said Malamoa stubbornly, “but 
I am not going to stay here; and you are not going to 
tell of me, either. Creep into your hut, Zembe, and go 
to sleep. When morning comes I will not be here, and 
you will know nothing about it. Mombo will not hurt 


THE SCHOOLING OF MALAMOA 


105 


you; you are old and wise, and he thinks you a 
witch woman. He will think I have been stolen away; 
surely he will never think I would be so foolish as to 
run away from the great honor of being the king’s 
wife.” 

The young voice was hard and scornful as she 
spoke; she pointed to the grass hut, and old Zembe, 
trembling and muttering, crept in and lay down to 
restless sleep. 

* * He * 

“What have you found, Kanju?” 

The long line of bearers who carried the white 
trader’s boxes through the bush came to a halt. 

“It is a girl, master,” said the head bearer. “We 
thought she was dead, but she stirs and moans. She 
is almost starved.” 

“How did she come here?” asked the trader idly. 

“A runaway slave, perhaps. She has the marks of 
many beatings, yet she is dressed in good cloth, with 
many beads. Who can tell? See, now she is sitting 
up.” 

“Give her some food if she wants it,” said the trader. 
“Is she worth taking along?” 

“She would be worth something to her master, if 
we could find him,” said the bearer. “She is too weak 
and thin to attract a buyer.” 

“Well, then, we can’t be bothered with her,” said 
the trader impatiently. “We have stopped too long 
already. Here comes another traveler, and now the 
path will be blocked.” 

The bearers of the newcomer were not burdened so 
heavily, nor were they so many as the train of the 
trader. Two natives carried a white man in a ham¬ 
mock; two others bore his modest luggage. 


106 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“What have we here?” asked the stranger, peering 
over the edge of the hammock with kindly eyes. The 
trader’s men quickly told him the story of the waif 
they had found in the path. 

With a quick movement the white man was out 
of the hammock and on his feet. 

“Put her in my hammock,” he commanded. “My 
journey is almost done, and I can easily walk the rest 
of the way. I am from the Mission you passed a few 
miles back,” he explained to the trader, “or rather, I 
am going back to it after a week’s tour among the 
villages. This poor girl, who would only be a hin¬ 
drance to you, will be cared for by the women at our 
Mission school. She surely needs food and care,” he 
added with pity in his voice, lifting the drooping head 
of the girl, who was falling asleep from weakness, with 
a piece of bread half eaten in her hand. 

She raised her heavy eyelids as the men laid her in 
the hammock. 

“Who are you?” she whispered to the missionary, 
looking up with wonder into his kind face. 

“I am God’s man,” he said simply, in the speech of 
the native. “And who are you?” 

“Malamoa,” she answered, curling wearily down in 
the hammock. 

* * * * 

“You are surely in difficulties today,” said the mis¬ 
sionary’s wife, looking up from her sewing. “I have 
heard you sigh six times in the last half hour.” 

“The work grows harder and harder,” declared her 
husband, pushing away the papers that heaped his 
desk. “I should not have attempted this native gram¬ 
mar and dictionary, with all the other work I have to 
do; but I am so anxious to give these people the Bible 


THE SCHOOLING OF MALAMOA 


107 


in their own language so that they can read it for 
themselves. But when they have no written language, 
and I must write it down for them from the sounds 
they make—well, you know what a task it has been. 

“Those Bantu boys who came here to help me are 
so ignorant that they cannot give me words for half 
the ideas I want to express. When I ask them the 
word for this or that they look foolish, and say, ‘Don’t 
know, God-man; what you mean by that?’ ” 

“Why don’t you try Malamoa?” inquired his wife. 

“Malamoa?” he asked in amazement. 

“Yes. She speaks several languages, for she can 
understand everybody that comes to the school, no 
matter from what tribe. She is very shy about letting 
us know it; for some reason she seems ashamed of it. 
But she is a true Christian girl now, I believe; and if 
she knew she could help you I think she would be 
willing. And she is as bright as a new dollar.” 

“Call her!” said the missionary, leaning back weari¬ 
ly in his chair. 

It was a different Malamoa from the draggled waif 
he had found in the forest who greeted his eyes in a 
few moments. Three years in the Mission school had 
wrought great changes in her. The smoothly braided 
hair, tied with a broad ribbon; the neat calico dress, 
made by her own hands; above all, the look of trust 
and contentment on her face, showed that the hard¬ 
ships of her past had given place to happy usefulness 
in her new life. 

“Malamoa,” said the missionary abruptly, “how 
many languages can you speak?” 

He spoke the words in the Bantu language, and 
before she realized it Malamoa had answered in the 
same language, “Five.” 


108 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Then a startled look spread over her face, and she 
turned as if to run away. The missionary’s wife held 
her gently back. 

“Tell us, dear Malamoa,” she said kindly, “why you 
have concealed from us that you had this great treas¬ 
ure which you might have been putting to use for 
your Master, Jesus? Will you let us work to write 
these languages with the ignorant help of untaught 
boys, when you might make the task so much easier?” 

Malamoa’s tears began to fall. 

“Oh, dear teacher,” she said, “I have hated the lan¬ 
guages I knew! Every one was like the marks of the 
whip that I shall carry on my back as long as I live. 
I learned them in slavery, because I was helpless till 
I knew them. But if you knew the terrible pictures of 
my slavery they bring back to me! I was ashamed to 
know so many tongues; they showed how many times 
I had been a slave. And I felt it all the more since I 
have gone to school here, and got book learning.” 

“Malamoa,” said her teacher very gently, “you began 
to go to school long before you came here. Out on the 
trail in the bush it was God who set you lessons in 
those languages, so that now you might be able to 
help us teach many people His truth. That was part 
of your schooling, though you did not know it. Now 
He asks you to use your knowledge for Him. Will 
you do it?” 

Malamoa’s dark face glowed with delight. She said 
not a word, but with a swift motion she seated herself 
on the floor at the missionary’s feet, folded her hands 
in her lap, and looked up eagerly, ready to answer his 
questions. 


KATO AND THE SIN-BEARER 


Kato was playing by the river. He did not play alone 
very often, for there were many other children in the 
village where he lived, and the river bank was their 
favorite meeting place. They liked to sail boats on 
it; they liked to follow up the little streams that ran 
into it, back into the fields where the lotus lilies grew. 
There the boys would dig up the sweet lotus roots to 
eat, while the girls would carry the broad lotus leaves 
for parasols. 

But today there was no laughing crowd of children 
by the river, for a guest was in the village—an un¬ 
welcome guest, named smallpox. 

All through the East this visitor was so common 
that it was considered a children’s disease, just as 
mumps and measles are with us; because in those 
countries hardly anybody used to grow up without 
having had it. In that day nobody in that part of the 
world knew anything about vaccination. 

It happened that Kato was almost the only child 
in the village who was not sick. Nobody tried to keep 
him from the others, for there was no such thing as 
quarantine, either. In fact, his mother was rather cross 
because he did not take it; she wanted him to “have it 
over” while the others were having it. He had visited 
a number of his friends, but they were not good com¬ 
pany and would not even try to play. So Kato felt 
very lonely and somewhat abused as he sat throwing 
pebbles into the water. 

As the grass waved in the wind something white 
caught his eye, lodged in the stem of a tall weed. 
Usually he would have been too busy to notice it, but 
109 


110 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


now he was so tired of doing nothing that he strolled 
idly down to see what it was. 

Just a bit of paper twisted around the stem of the 
weed; but as he was about to turn away he saw a 
name written on it: 

“Hiro.” 

That was all. He wondered if Hiro was a boy like 
himself; whether he had anyone to play with; and how 
his name happened to be on this bit of paper. Perhaps 
there was more on the other side. 

He unwrapped the paper carefully from the stem; 
it was wet, and he tried not to tear it. It must have 
floated down the river—who could tell how far? 

Now the paper was loose. He unfolded it—and stood 
staring in dismay. It was a rude imitation of a human 
form clad in a loose kimono, such as the Japanese wear. 

Kato knew well what it was. On a certain day in 
June, now several weeks ago, people all over Japan had 
gone to worship at the shrines of their gods; and on 
that day the priests had given to all the worshipers 
little pieces of paper like these. They were called “sin- 
bearers.” 

The worshiper would take the sin-bearer home with 
him. The little figure represented himself; and as he 
put it in his house he believed that while it was there 
all his sins would leave him and pass into the paper 
image. 

Several days later he would take back the little sin- 
bearer to the temple. On the same day all the other 
sin-bearers were brought back to the priest. The 
people would pay the priest some money to rid them 
of their sins. Then the priest would say a prayer and 
throw all the sin-bearers into the river. As they floated 
away the people thought all the sins of the year went 
with them. 


KATO AND THE SIN-BEARER 


111 


Now somebody by the name of Hiro had thrown 
away his sins, but the river had refused to carry them 
to the sea! Instead, he, Kato, had picked them up. 
They had doubtless been cast there for that very pur¬ 
pose by the gods. He had never thought of a sin- 
bearer when he found the paper, though he had seen 
hundreds of them floating down the river only a few 
w r eeks before. 

He wondered if Hiro had been very wicked. Perhaps 
he had been a thief or a murderer! What if all those 
terrible sins had entered into himself? He tried to 
throw the paper into the river, but it was wet, and 
clung to his fingers. He shook it off, and the breeze 
carried it right back to his feet. There was no doubt 
of it—Hiro’s sins had taken up their abode with poor 
little Kato! 

That night his mother heard him muttering in his 
sleep, and the next morning she was pleased, because 
he had taken the smallpox at last. But later she grew 
frightened, for Kato was very sick, and in his delirium 
he kept crying out, “Take it away! The sin-bearer! 
The sin-bearer!” 

* * * * * 

“Our boy does not grow strong, as he should,” said 
Kato’s father about six weeks later. The weather was 
very hot, and the other children were out playing 
again; but Kato sat listless and weak and would talk 
to nobody. 

“The sickness was very bad,” said his mother. “See 
how he is marked! If he would eat he would get 
strong again.” 

“Let me take him up the river to my brother’s 
home,” suggested his father. “It is much cooler up 
there in the mountains.” 

So Kato went on the journey, not caring much about 


112 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


it. If he could only forget about Hiro and his sins! # 
But, in spite of his troubles, the mountain air began to 
make him hungry, and soon he was strong enough to 
walk about again. 

Then he began to go to all the wayside shrines and 
every holy place in the neighborhood, and pray to have 
those dreadful sins removed. Once he tried to make 
a pilgrimage to a shrine far up on the mountain, and 
was carried home half dead by a man who found him 
fainting on the rocks. 

All the time it seemed to him it was harder than 
ever to be good. He wanted to be cross and quarrel¬ 
some; he could not remember to be polite; he was not 
at all like himself, and he laid it all to the sin-bearer. 
His uncle and aunt were very patient with him, be¬ 
cause they knew he had been so ill; but poor Kato was 
very miserable. 

“May Kato go to our school today for a visit?” asked 
Ono, a neighbor’s son, looking in one bright autumn 
morning. 

“If he wishes,” said his aunt, looking over at Kato 
as he sat idly under a tree. Kato did not care whether 
he stayed or went; but Ono promised to take good 
care of him, and his aunt advised him to go. Perhaps 
he' would feel brighter if he played with the boys. 

The little school was taught by an American lady. 
Kato did not know she was a Christian; he wondered 
greatly at the songs the school sang, but something 
about the place was pleasant and comforting, and he 
liked it. 

At noon he met a number of the boys. He was too 
weak to play games, and was glad when one boy came 
and sat beside him for a chat. 

“My name is Hiro,” said the boy, and wondered at 
the start Kato gave. Kato was afraid the boy would 


KATO AND THE SIN-BEARER 


113 


think his manners were bad, so he had to explain; and 
presently he had told him all the story of the piece of 
paper. 

“That was my sin-bearer!” cried Hiro. “I was so 
afraid the gods would not know it carried my sins 
that I wrote my name on it! But, O Kato, now I know 
about a better Sin-bearer than those! Ask your uncle 
to let you come every day to our school and we will tell 
you all about Him.” 

So it happened that Kato spent the whole winter 
with his uncle and aunt, and went to the mission 
school with Ono and Hiro. 

And on Easter morning, when the little school house 
was trimmed with flowers and a missionary preacher 
had come to tell the people the resurrection story, 
Kato sat close to Hiro and listened with all his heart, 
and after the service he said very softly to his friend, 
“Now, Hiro, I have really found your Sin-bearer!” 


THE WALL PAPER THAT TALKED 


“Have you brought them, Cho Ling?” “How many 
did you get?” “What did you say to the book people?” 
“How did you know how many books to ask for?” 

An eager little knot of Chinese villagers had gath¬ 
ered around their townsman, who stood among them 
travel stained and weary, bent beneath a heavy bundle. 

“Let me come into your shop, Hu Peng,” he an¬ 
swered, “and open this pack of books. I am ready to 
drop. Remember, I have come thirty miles with this 
pack on my back, and uphill nearly all the way. I 
did not get as many as I wanted to, but I got all the 
money would buy. You know, we did not know the 
price, so we could only send what we had; now we 
must make them go around as far as we can and share 
them with each other.” 

“But tell us about the Bible House at Hong-Kong,” 
put in an eager voice. “What did you say there, and 
what did they do?” 

“There is not much to tell,” said Cho Ling wearily, 
taking Testament after Testament from his pack. “It 
is a place with books in the window, books on the 
shelves, books everywhere. I went in and laid down 
the money, and I just said, ‘Please give me as many 
copies of the Jesus-book as that will buy/ They said, 
‘Where did you come from?’ Then I told them I had 
walked from here, thirty miles down the mountain. 
They said, ‘How did you know about the Jesus-book?’ 
I said a Jesus-man had met me once on the road and 
talked to me, and had given me a Jesus-book. I told 
them how I had read it, first to myself, and then aloud 
114 


THE WALL PAPER THAT TALKED 


115 


to you in the evenings, and how you had wanted books 
like it for yourselves and had sent me to buy them. 
All the time they were making up this big pack for 
me. When it was ready I took it on my back, set off 
for home, and here I am.” 

Cho Ling had now unpacked all the books and was 
distributing them as best he could. 

“Ho Li, you live far off from the village; you must 
have one, for you cannot easily get to hear another 
one read. Chang Lo, you have a large family; I will 
give you one, and you can read it to them all. But 
you, and you,” he said to the two men who presented 
themselves, “are father and son and live in one house; 
a single book must do for you, for there are many who 
will be disappointed if they get none. 

“Wang Tao,” he went on, to a hollow-cheeked, 
bright-eyed man who stood trying to suppress a per¬ 
petual hacking cough, “you must have a book, for you 
are sick, and there is much comfort in it for sick 
people.” 

Wang Tao bowed and grasped the book eagerly. 

“Thanks, thanks, Cho Ling!” he exclaimed. “I want 
one very much. Perhaps I shall not have many days 
to read in it, but I have heard you read in yours about 
Jesus, who said there was a place prepared in His 
Father’s house for the people who go from this world, 
if they believe in Him. I want to read that part again. 
Can you show me where it is, Cho Ling?” 

Cho Ling quickly turned to the Gospel of John, with 
a look of compassion on his face. Wang Tao carefully 
marked the place and went slowly away with his 
precious book, coughing painfully as he went, while 
Cho proceeded with his distribution. 

It was not many weeks before a sad little procession 
went out of Wang Tao’s house. He had found the 


116 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


home of the many mansions. Mrs. Tao wailed and 
lamented like a dutiful wife, but Wang had been sick 
a long time and she had been expecting to lose him, 
so her grief was consoled by the thought that he had 
seemed very content to go. How much of his willing¬ 
ness was due to the fact that Mrs. Tao had a very 
sharp tongue, that lady did not trouble herself to 
inquire. 

Months passed by and Wang Tao’s resting-place 
was covered with wild flowers of spring. The home 
that had once been his was blossoming out, too, for 
his eldest son was about to be married and bring home 
his bride. Mrs. Tao determined to do everything she 
could to make the old house appear new. A mother- 
in-law would have a hard time to “save her face” if 
the new daughter should carry tales home to her 
people about the shabbiness of the house she had come 
into. 

“I shall send for Tuan Shi,” she said to herself. “He 
shall paper these rooms and hide the holes in the 
walls.” 

So Tuan Shi, the little paperhanger and general 
handy man of the village, was sent for, and he came 
willingly enough, for business had been very dull that 
season. 

Wall paper in a Chinese home does not mean a 
dressing anew of the rooms in beautiful tints, while a 
fascinated family watches the long strips unroll and 
appear as if by magic on the walls. The poorer people 
are glad to plaster their walls with any sort of paper 
they can get; it patches up holes and makes the house 
warmer. 

So the paper Mrs. Tao supplied for the purpose 
was mostly newspapers of every kind she was able to 
gather; but Tuan Shi put it on very neatly, and it 


THE WALL PAPER THAT TALKED 


117 


really looked much better than the old smoke-stained, 
broken walls. 

“Honorable Mrs. Tao,” said the little man at last, 
presenting himself before the mistress of the house, 
“the paper you gave me is not quite enough to finish 
the last wall.” 

Mrs. Tao was in a quandary; she had used up all the 
papers she had saved or could beg from her neighbors. 
She was exceedingly thrifty and it vexed her to think 
of buying any paper. She rummaged in all her cubby¬ 
holes, and at last emerged triumphant. 

“Here is an old book,” she said, “that poor Wang 
bought just before he died. What he wanted of it I 
don’t know, when he had such a little' while to live; 
but buy it he did, and it is fortunate for me. The leaves 
are small, but perhaps there will be enough to cover 
that little corner.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Tuan Shi, taking the book. “I think 
that will be plenty.” 

Tuan Shi’s paste was running low also. It was a 
great deal of trouble to go and boil some more just 
for that little space. He stood looking at the bucket, 
and presently made up his mind to stir in a little more 
water. The paste would be very thin if he did; more 
than likely it would not hold well, and before long the 
paper in that corner would begin to come off. But he 
would have his money by that time; and, at any rate, 
he could blame it on the book and say the pages were 
too highly glazed to take the paste well. 

He tore a leaf from the book and held it up against 
the wall to estimate how many pages it would take to 
cover the space. Suddenly some words on the page 
caught his eye and he seemed compelled to read them: 

“And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as unto the 
Lord, and not unto men.” 


118 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


It was just as if somebody had spoken to him. He 
gasped as though water had been thrown in his face. 

“The wall paper talks to me!” he muttered. Then he 
laughed at himself; but he picked up the pastebucket, 
and he didn’t go to the well with it—he went to make 
more paste. 

He came back presently and found his small son, 
who had followed him from home to tell him that 
supper was ready, busily engaged in picking loose the 
last sheet he had pasted on the wall. One corner of 
it hung in shreds. Tuan raised his hand with the 
heavy scissors in it, and they were not far from the 
head of the unsuspecting Lao—for Tuan was a man 
of violent temper—when he caught sight of another 
leaf of the book which Lao had managed to stick on 
the wall with the paste he had found on the brush. 
Again the wall paper spoke to his eyes and heart: “Be 
ye angry, and sin not.” 

The scissors dropped to the floor. Tuan turned 
white at the thought of what he had been about to 
do. He pulled Lao gently away, though a sheet of 
sticky wall paper came along with him, and started 
him home, promising to come soon. 

Reaching into his pocket for his rule, he touched 
the smooth skin of an apple. In the room he had 
passed through when he went out to mix the paste 
a large dish of fruit had been standing, and Tuan 
had helped himself, with half a thought of that same 
small Lao at whom he had just been so furious. 

As his fingers touched it his eyes were still fas¬ 
tened on the page from the book, sticking crookedly 
on the wall, and this is what he saw: “Let him that 
stole, steal no more.” 

That was too much for Tuan. Hastening back, he 
laid the apple carefully on the plate. Three times the 


THE WALL PAPER THAT TALKED 119 

wall paper had spoken to him. He determined that he 
must have that book, but it was not his and he was 
not going to risk another rebuke from it. 

In one of his own pockets was a picture paper 
which he had picked up on the street; a tourist had 
thrown it away. Tuan liked those papers, especially 
the ones with colored pictures. He had meant it for 
an evening’s enjoyment at home—several evenings, in 
fact, for Tuan was a slow reader. But it would make 
a glorious finish to the wall, that colored supplement; 
Mrs. Tao would consider that it more than paid for 
the book she thought so worthless. 

The colored pictures stayed on Mrs. Tao’s wall 
and the little book went home with Tuan. 

It was a year later, when the missionary who first 
gave Cho Ling his Testament hunted up the mountain 
village to see what had become of Cho, that he found 
a whole community ready for baptism; and among 
them was one Tuan Shi and his whole family, who 
declared, in what the missionary thought very strange 
talk, that they had come to know the Jesus-story from 
some paper on a wall that had talked to father one 
day. 


THE SHOES OF LING LI 


“One, two, three, and an old cow’s eye; 

If a cow’s eye’s blind she’ll surely die. 

A piece of skin and a melon, too, 

If you have money I’ll sell to you; 

But if you’re without 
I’ll put you out 1” 

The little circle of Chinese girls sitting on the ground 
in the mission-school yard was broken as one little girl 
jumped up. The rhyme they had been repeating in concert 
had ended, and the girl in the center, who was doing the 
“counting out,” had tapped the foot of Me Ing at the last 
syllable, and Me Ing was “out.” She hopped up and the 
circle closed as the counting began again. 

The old cow must have died a great many times before 
all the girls but one were counted out, and many little 
blue-clad figures were hopping about, waiting to see who 
would be the last. 

“Ling Li! It’s Ling Li!” they cried as the little girl 
next to Ling Li rose, laughing aloud. Ling Li was 
“It.” All the girls came circling about her as she sat still 
on the ground. The leader snatched off Ling Li’s little 
cloth-topped shoe and slapped the sole of Ling Li’s foot 
with it. Then every girl could have a turn at slapping 
Ling Li’s foot with her shoe; and then they would all 
sit down and “count out” again, till another foot was 
left alone to pay the forfeit. 

Ling Li squirmed and giggled while her foot was being 
slapped. It tickled rather than hurt; the shoes were not 
hard like the American shoes teacher wore. But, oh, how 
Ling Li admired those shiny, brown American shoes! 

120 


THE SHOES OF LING LI 


121 


They were big, very big compared with the bound feet 
of Chinese ladies; but how quickly they carried teacher 
about, and how comfortable they looked! 

Ling Li slipped her shoe on again and strolled away 
from the group of players. She stood a long time by the 
schoolhouse steps looking gravely at her feet. 

“What is the matter, Ling Li?” asked teacher from 
within. “The girls didn’t slap you too hard, did they ?” 

The little girl shook her head. 

“Is anything the matter, dear?” asked Miss Bancroft, 
seeing the downcast look on the child’s face. But Ling 
Li only shook her head again. Something was the matter, 
but she couldn’t tell it to teacher. She had only heard it 
whispered at home last night, and she didn’t know whether 
she had heard it right or not. It was too dreadful a thing 
to talk about, anyway. 

This is what Ling Li had heard her grandmother whis¬ 
per to her mother the night before—only a few words, 
but how much they meant to the little girl: 

“Ling Li is getting very big. She runs and plays like 
a boy at that foreign school. Her feet must soon be 
bound or they will grow like the foreign teacher’s, and 
nobody will ever want to marry her.” 

Ling Li knew what that meant. Her little feet would 
be bent and bandaged out of shape, to make of them the 
“golden lilies” which Chinese ladies were supposed to 
have. She would never run and play any more. She 
would suffer terribly for a long time; everybody knew the 
saying that “for every bound foot there is a bedful of 
tears.” Then her feet would lose their feeling, and she 
would hobble about on them the rest of her life, a useless 
little cripple. 

And all in order that she might be married. Perhaps 
it was true that she would never get a husband if she 
had big feet; teacher had them, and she was not married, 


122 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


so it must be true. But Ling Li did not want to be mar¬ 
ried. She wanted to run and play in the schoolyard, and 
learn lessons from teacher. She studied very hard that 
afternoon, because she didn’t know how many more days 
she would have in school. 

And the very next morning Miss Bancroft asked 
“Where is Ling Li ?” and nobody answered; but everyone 
could guess. Teacher guessed, too, as soon as she remem¬ 
bered Ling Li’s grave little face, and how she had stood 
by the school door looking at her feet. 

The next morning teacher started early to school, on 
purpose to go around by Ling Li’s house. There on the 
steps sat a white-faced little girl, with dark rings under 
her eyes. Two nights and a day with bound feet are 
enough to make a little girl heavy-eyed. Ling Li thought 
she must have cried almost her bedful of tears already. 

She greeted teacher bravely enough. 

“I cannot come any more to the school, dear teacher,” 
she said; then words failed her. She pointed down to the 
poor little feet and hid her face in the crook of her arm. 

“May I see your mother, Ling Li?” asked the teacher, 
patting the shiny black head. Ling Li moved aside to let 
the teacher enter. 

Mrs. Li was almost as sad-eyed as her little girl that 
morning. All the memory of her own pain and sorrow 
when her feet were bound came back to her as she listened 
in the night to the slow sobbing of Ling. 

Teacher told her what a dear little scholar Ling was, 
how fast she was learning, what a happy time she had at 
school. Wasn’t it possible to leave her free at least a little 
longer? Maybe she could learn to be a teacher, and that 
would be a proud thing for the Li family, and would 
bring in many cash as well. 

Mrs. Li was ready to listen, but Grandmother Li ob¬ 
jected. 


THE SHOES OF LING LI 


123 


“All girls must endure it,” she said, “unless they are 
of the coolies and have no pride, but work hard for a 
living. Ling will marry a wealthy man some day if she has 
golden lilies, for you see what a fine girl she is. Certainly 
her feet must be bound; they were growing so big that 
already it was very hard to do anything with them.” 

“Well,” said Miss Bancroft, “it’s too bad for if she 
went on going to school, some day she might go to college; 
and since she is so bright, some day she might be one of 
the girls chosen to go across the sea and study in America. 
But, of course, if her feet were bound that could never 
happen, for they would not let her go to America like 
that.” 

“What’s that?” asked grandmother. “Do not even the 
married women in your country have golden lilies ?” 

“All the ladies,” said teacher impressively, “even the 
President’s wife, wear shoes like mine,” and she set her 
russet-clad foot down firmly on the floor as she spoke. 

The two women looked curiously at the foot. After all, 
it looked very neat, and such a beautiful color. 

“Your American shoes,” ventured Mrs. Li, “are very 
nice for American ladies. How do you get them off and 
on, or do they grow fast?” 

Then the teacher was glad she had started early, for she 
sat on the edge of the brick bed and unlaced her shoe, 
took it off and let the women feel it and peer inside it, 
and laced it back again. All the time their eyes grew 
bigger with wonder, and their smiles more friendly. At 
last she stood up and made her bid for Ling Li’s freedom. 

“If you will let Ling Li come back to school, and not 
bind her feet,” she said, knowing that a little pair of ears 
at the door were drinking in every word, “I will get her 
a pair of American shoes like mine.” 

“Like the President’s wife wears ?” asked grandmother, 
quite carried away by this vision of glory. 


124 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Just such shoes,” promised Miss Bancroft, “as the 
President’s daughters wore when they were little girls.” 

* * * * 

It took several days to send to Canton for those Amer¬ 
ican shoes, and teacher held her breath when she thought 
that Grandmother Li might change her mind before they 
came. 

But the next morning after she had sent the package 
around to the Li home she started early again and 
walked around that way. As she drew near, suddenly a 
little blue-clad form came darting out of the door and 
danced up the street to meet her. There were no dark 
circles under Ling Li’s eyes this morning and no sobs in 
her voice. 

And yet, somehow, she choked over the words when 
she tried to speak. She wanted to tell teacher how glad 
she was to be going back to school, but only one word 
would come, and she said it over and over, holding tight 
to teacher’s hand and pointing to her own little feet: 

“Unbound! Unbound!” 

And teacher looked down at the bright new pair of 
American shoes, and she too found it hard to speak. But 
she took firm hold of the little girl’s hand, and she and 
Ling Li went happily to school together. 


THE VICEROY'S VISITORS 

(RETOLD FROM THE MEMOIRS OF LI HUNG CHANG) 

Upon a dusty Chinese road two travelers went trudging 
along. One who knew the people of that country would 
have seen that they were not Chinese, but had come from 
Japan. They were tired and footsore, and one of them 
stumbled now and then as he walked. 

“Courage, Taro!” said the man, taking the boy by the 
arm after one of these stumbles. “It is not much farther 
now. Shall we rest awhile ?” 

“Oh, father,” said the boy, with the sound of tears in 
his voice, “why did we ever come so far ? How big China 
is! Must we go on? Maybe the viceroy will not receive 
us.” 

“Poor boy!” said the father pityingly. “You are too 
young for such a journey; I should not have brought you, 
but I thought it would be a chance for you to see the great 
Li Hung Chang. Besides, it is a mission of honor for us.” 

“I know,” said Taro, bravely swallowing his tears. The 
word “honor” is like the sound of a trumpet to a Japanese, 
young or old. “But I am so tired and—and homesick! I 
would give anything to be back in Ketuki again.” 

“See, Taro,” said his father, “it is nearly as far to go 
back now as it will be after our journey is completed. Be 
brave a little longer and we shall go back with our task 
accomplished. Would you have me tell the church in 
Ketuki that we were almost at the viceroy’s door and had 
to turn back?” 

“No, father,” said Taro sturdily. “I will pray to be 
helped, and try not to hinder you any more.” 

125 


126 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Three hours later a travel-worn pair stood at the en¬ 
trance to the viceroy’s court, knocking for admission. 

“What is your business?” asked the gate-keeper. “The 
viceroy is ill and cannot be disturbed by beggars.” 

Taro trembled at the harsh words; but his father said 
with gentle dignity, “We have not come to take, but to 
give. We are sent from the Christian church at Ketuki, 
in Japan, to bring medicines for the viceroy’s illness. Will 
you ask if he will see us ?” 

Presently the porter returned with a more respectful 
manner and unbarred the gate. The viceroy had ordered 
that his visitors be admitted at once. 

For twenty-four years the great Li Hung Chang had 
held audience in that court. Here had come, to use his 
own words, “royalties and dukes, ambassadors, ministers, 
murderers, robbers and beggars.” Here he received the 
noble and judged the base; but never had anyone entered 
his court on such an errand as Mr. Sato and his little son. 

After the usual ceremonies the viceroy expressed his 
surprise at the long journey which the two had taken for 
his sake. 

“All the way from Ketuki, in Japan, you say? Yes, I 
remember, the Christians at Ketuki sent me flowers for 
my sick-room at the beginning of my illness.” 

“And every day we talk about Your Excellency,” said 
Mr. Sato, “and pray to our God for your recovery.” 

“I wonder,” said Li Hung Chang thoughtfully, “if 
this is because Christianity teaches such things? But now 
you are my guests and must taste food, for I know you 
are tired and hungry.” 

What a delicious meal that was! Boiled chicken, chicken 
tongue on crackers, rice-cakes and tea were set before 
the hungry travelers, and they did full justice to the 
viceroy’s hospitality. All the time he talked kindly and 
simply to them, trying to make them feel at home, and 


THE VICEROY'S VISITORS 


127 


expressing again and again his thanks for the medicines 
they had brought, and the friendly spirit that had 
prompted their visit. 

“You must stay with me and be my guests for a few 
days/' he urged. 

But Mr. Sato looked at poor Taro, who was almost 
falling asleep over his food, and replied, “Your Excel¬ 
lency, more than once on the road I almost turned back; 
for this little son of mine was weary and homesick almost 
unto death, and begged me to take him home again. But 
for Your Excellency’s sake and the honor of our mission, 
he toiled bravely on, and has arrived here ready to drop. 
As soon as may be we must start on our return.” 

“So be it,” said the viceroy, looking compassionately 
at the sleepily nodding little head, and not at all offended 
at Taro’s lack of manners. “He is a brave boy, and worthy 
of his father. But come, and he shall choose what gift 
he will have to carry home with him.” 

It was a big bundle of presents of all kinds for the 
people at Ketuki that the viceroy insisted on sending 
with them ;• besides a gift of two hundred taels in money 
for the mission, and a like amount to pay the expenses of 
the journey. Mr. Sato did not want to take this, but the 
viceroy would hear no refusal. 

“You must hire a conveyance; the little boy cannot 
walk all that way back again.” 

Before they left the court one more thing happened, 
which left the viceroy with tears in his keen old eyes. After 
the customary farewells Mr. Sato said to him: 

“Your Excellency, have we your honored permission to 
pray for you?” 

“Certainly,” said Li Hung Chang, supposing they meant 
the daily prayer offered for him at Ketuki, of which they 
had told him. But Mr. Sato spoke in an undertone to 
Taro, and in an instant they were both kneeling at the 


128 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


door, praying aloud for the viceroy. A moment more 
and they were gone, with low bows and courteous fare¬ 
wells. 

That night the great man wrote the story of his visitors 
down in his journal, and that is how we know about it. 
After telling all about the visit, he added these words: 

“I think this Christianity makes poor and lowly people 
bold and unafraid. I could not keep my heart from 
thumping in my bosom as I watched that poor man and 
his frightened little boy praying to God—the God that 
will deal with me and with them and with all mankind— 
that I might be well of my injuries. I was sorry to see 
them go. 

“Poor, good Mr. Sato, all the way from Japan to offer 
a Christian prayer for the ‘heathen’ old viceroy! I did 
not know that anyone outside my own family cared 
enough about me for such a thing. I do not love the 
Japanese, but perhaps Christianity would help them!” 

And Taro, riding at ease along the homeward road, 
whispered sleepily to his father: 

“I am glad we came. Do you think God has made 
the viceroy well yet ?” 


UNCLE SEN’S THREE BAGS 


Third Brother sat on the river bank watching the ducks 
paddle about. It wasn’t a very big river, up in that part 
of the country; but it was big enough to make the ducks 
quite safe from Third Brother when they were out in the 
middle of it, and that was a point for ducks to consider, 
even without the added pleasures of swimming and diving. 
Third Brother could not swim; he was afraid of the 
water. The ducks were glad of that. 

Not that Third Brother was a cruel boy. He had no 
special desire to hurt the ducks, but ducks have such beau¬ 
tiful long wing feathers, and Third Brother wanted some. 
It was his first term in school—the mission-school, taught 
by the foreign lady. She was teaching her pupils to write 
the funny Chinese characters with a tiny brush dipped in 
India ink, and Third Brother was learning, as a good pupil 
should, but it was very slow work. 

Sometimes, when the teacher sat at her desk and all the 
rest were busy, Third Brother looked up shyly from his 
work and watched the foreign lady. She was doing some¬ 
thing that puzzled him, yet he liked to watch her do it, 
because her face always looked then as if it were going to 
break into a smile. He asked her one day what she was 
doing when she looked so happy, and she said she was 
writing letters home to her people in America. 

Third Brother knew nothing about America or the 
people there, but he thought that kind of letter writing 
must be very pleasant, to make the teacher’s face so bright. 
It must be the way she did it—not with a brush, as they 
were doing, in slow, laborious strokes, but with a little 
black stick that fairly flew over the paper. Third Brother 
decided he would learn to write that way; but how could 
he get a little black stick like teacher’s ? 

129 


130 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


One day he happened to be standing by the desk, waiting 
for a new brush, when teacher was having trouble with 
her pen. “Oh dear,” she said, laying it down, “this old pen 
is almost past writing any more! I expect when it gives 
out entirely I shall have to catch a duck and make a pen 
out of one of its quills.” 

She was speaking very low, just to herself, and never 
thought that anyone was listening; but Third Brother 
had both ears wide open, and his eyes and mouth, too. 
That was the thing for him to do, if pens could be made 
from quills; he would catch a duck, pull some of its best 
feathers and take them to teacher; and she would be so 
pleased that she would make a writing-stick for him, too, 
and show him how to do the happy writing. 

Third Brother’s people, unfortunately, had no ducks. 
But Uncle Sen had a whole flock of them. Uncle Sen 
was the rich relative of Third Brother’s mother. He had 
no children except one young man, who was away at 
school; he and Mrs. Sen lived all alone and kept many 
ducks. They would not be thought rich at all in America, 
and their house would look small and mean to us; but to 
Third Brother it seemed a palace. Uncle Sen could easily 
spare a few duck feathers and never miss them. 

So Third Brother, whenever he could slip away by him¬ 
self, tried to catch a duck. But they always stayed near the 
river, and Third Brother’s legs were very short. They 
came to know him, and as soon as he came in sight, 
heading for the river bank, they headed for it also and 
always reached it first. Once out on the river, they could 
feel safe from Third Brother’s attempts. 

While Third Brother sat idly watching the ducks 
Uncle Sen was very busy in his house by the river. This 
was the day when he counted up his beans, and that was 
a serious performance for Uncle Sen. 

The rich uncle was a very religious man, after the man- 


UNCLE SEN'S THREE BAGS 


131 


tier of those who follow the great Confucius, China’s 
famous teacher. Confucius had said that a man must try 
always to do what was right, and avoid doing things that 
were wrong. Uncle Sen had very clear ideas about what 
things were right and what were wrong, and he had his 
own private system of keeping accounts with his con¬ 
science. 

On a little shelf in his house, just below the small shrine 
of his ancestors, he kept three bags. The one on the right, 
at the beginning of each month, was filled with black 
beans; the one on the left with yellow beans; the middle 
one was empty. 

Each day Uncle Sen counted up, as honestly as he knew 
how, the deeds he had done that day. If he had been angry 
or had forgotten to say his prayers or had envied—as he 
was often tempted to do—someone who had more sons 
than he had, he would put a black bean in the middle bag. 
If he had given a coin to a beggar or saved a fly from a 
spider’s web a yellow bean went into the bag in the middle. 

At the end of the month he counted the beans in the 
middle bag. If there were more black beans than yellow 
ones his conscience began to trouble him. He was in debt 
and must do something to even up the score. Sometimes 
he would make special offerings before the tablet of his 
ancestors; often he would perform acts of mercy, such as 
buying live fish in the market and setting them free in the 
river. 

The strange thing was that, though he often caught 
himself looking with envy over at the little house where 
his sister lived, when her three healthy boys were playing 
together after school, and then had to pay a black bean 
for wishing he had one of them to fill the place of the 
son who was away at school, it never occurred to him 
that he might have earned many yellow beans by doing 
something kind for the little nephews. 


132 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Today he sat busily counting the beans, for it was the 
last day of the month. He felt quite well satisfied with 
himself, for there were many yellow beans and few black 
ones this time. Truly, he had been a good man of late, a 
true disciple of the wise Confucius. 

Suddenly a great racket arose down by the river. It 
sounded as if all the ducks were quacking at once; and so 
they were, all except the big drake. Third Brother had 
been experimenting with a piece of rope on the end of a 
stick, and had been only too successful. 

Uncle Sen rushed out, upsetting all the beans as he 
did so. There on the bank, pulling for dear life, was Third 
Brother. In his hands was the stick he had found, with 
the bit of rope attached. In the water struggled the drake, 
with the rope looped tightly about his neck. He splashed 
and strangled, and all the ducks flapped squawking about 
him, helpless to set him free. 

Uncle Sen saw the sunlight grow red before his eyes. 
In a great rage he ran down the bank, and dealt Third 
Brother a blow that sent the little fellow whirling out into 
the stream among the ducks. At the same time he snatched 
the rope, pulled the drake ashore and tore the choking 
noose from the lustrous neck. 

It was not until the drake was free that the red mist 
cleared from before Uncle Sen’s eyes. Then he heard 
shouts and saw First Brother flinging himself into the 
water. It was not a wide stream, but there were deep 
spots in it, and Third Brother had gone down twice. 

Uncle Sen watched the two boys in agony of mind. He 
had never meant to drown the little mischief-maker. What 
would he do if Third Brother—no, there!—see!—they 
were coming ashore, safe, but very wet. 

Uncle Sen’s philosophy, learned from the great Con¬ 
fucius, failed him utterly. He sat down on the bank sud¬ 
denly with a very white face. What bagful of black beans 


UNCLE SEN'S THREE BAGS 


133 


could account for such a moment of unbridled anger? 
What coins given to beggars, or captive fish set free, could 
atone for the killing of his nephew, which would have been 
his crime if First Brother had come too late? He bowed 
his head on his hands and felt himself to be not Mr. Sen, 
the rich and wise and good, but just a poor old man, with 
a wicked temper he could not control. 

First Brother came out again at last, having carried 
Third Brother, whimpering, to his mother, and heard the 
whole story of the teacher who wanted duck feathers to 
do her writing. First Brother had been five years at the 
Mission school and he was a Christian; some day he hoped 
to be a preacher. He felt very sorry for poor Uncle Sen 
when he saw him sitting hiding his face in his hands. 

“Uncle,” he said softly, “I know how bad you feel in¬ 
side; I have felt so often. I think the Mission teacher 
could tell you what would take the bad feelings away. 
Jesus can do it, Uncle Sen. Won’t you come and hear 
about Him?” 

And First Brother never understood just what his uncle 
meant when he looked up with quivering lips and an¬ 
swered, “Perhaps it would be better than beans.” 


HOW CHRISTMAS CAME BACK 


“But, do you know,” said Poona, her little dark face 
puckered in anxious thought, “it seems to me it is not right 
that all those American girls send us presents every year 
for the Jesus' Birthday, and we never send any to them.” 

“Oh, Poona!” exclaimed Oaksie. “What could we send 
them that they would want? They are rich girls, over in 
America, and eat meat and cakes every day, while we are 
very poor and live on rice. We have nothing to send.” 

The little circle of Korean mission school-girls nodded 
gravely. 

“But it is true,” added Moksie from the other side of 
the group. “Jesus' Birthday means goodwill, and that is 
what the teacher-lady says. But how can we show that 
we have goodwill, if we get presents all the time and never 
give any?” 

“I would like to send Jesus’ Birthday presents to those 
girls, too, if I could,” said Oaksie. “If all the Jesus’ Birth¬ 
day keeps on being sent over here, some day they will 
have no more in America, and that would be very sad. I 
wish we could send some of it back to those girls; but how 
can we do it, Poona?” 

“Those girls are rich, maybe,” said Poona slowly; “but 
perhaps we have some things they do not have. One day 
the teacher-lady was out in the bazaar shopping, and I 
was with her. She bought a little embroidered bag, and 
she said to me, This is for my little niece in America. She 
has never seen a bag like this, with such odd little birds 
and animals embroidered on it; she will be very proud 
to have a bag that came from over the sea and she will 
show it to all her schoolmates.” 


134 


HOW CHRISTMAS CAME BACK 


135 


The faces began to brighten all around the circle. 

“I have a piece of green silk,” said Moksie. “It would 
make a bag; and I can embroider too.” 

“I could make a little book to hold needles, with a pat¬ 
tern worked on it in beads,” said Oaksie. 

“I could dress a doll,” said another girl, and still another 
declared, “I can make a case to hold a thimble.” 

Poona rose to her feet with a beaming face. “I knew 
we could do it,” she said. “Now, girls, it is summer, and 
Jesus’ Birthday is a long way off, but it will not be too 
long, for we must make our presents very carefully, so that 
the American girls will be proud to show them to their 
friends, and say, ‘This is the work those girls did for us 
whom we have been sending presents to all these years/ 
Besides,” she added seriously, “it would not be right to 
give a Jesus’ Birthday present that was not the very best 
we could make, because you know the teacher-lady says 
it is just the same as giving it to Him. So they must be 
very nicely made. And then it will take many, many weeks 
to send them over the sea; so I think we ought to start 
right away.” 

“We will, we will!” cried the girls; and Oaksie added, 
“Let us keep it a secret till they are all done. We can 
work at them in our play hour, down here under the trees. 
How surprised the teacher-lady will be!” 

The very next day saw a great display of bits of silk 
and satin, beads of all colors, embroidery silks, and all the 
precious stores that little girls in Korea, as well as in 
America, gather and save as treasures. There was much 
excitement when Moksie, after a visit to her home, re¬ 
turned with a large piece of most wonderful golden-yellow 
silk. 

“My mother,” she explained, “was once maid to a court 
lady, and she gave her one of her old dresses. It was far 
too fine for my mother to wear, she said; she made my 


136 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


oldest brother a cloak of it, to wear when he was little, 
and here is a piece that was left, and she said I could 
have it. It is so big that I am going to divide it, and give 
every one of you a piece.” 

The teacher-lady wondered greatly at the number of 
sudden requests to be allowed to make week-end visits 
home by the girls who lived near the school, and the 
mothers were much surprised at the energy with which 
the girls who came home insisted on turning out every 
nook and corner in the house, looking for scraps that 
might be usable. Some of them found treasures in the 
way of old beadwork, which could be ripped out, leaving 
the beads ready for new uses. Poona discovered some 
paints and brushes, just right for making marvelous 
pictures on Moksie’s bits of yellow satin. 

The little grove where the girls spent their play hour 
was down by the brook at the foot of the grounds. The 
teacher could see them busily at work there, but could not 
tell what they were doing; and the girls wore such an air 
of happy mystery that she was wise enough not to spoil 
it by asking questions. 

So the summer weeks went on, and some really beautiful 
bits of work were completed by the busy little brown 
fingers. While the girls worked they talked happily about 
the girls in America, and tried to imagine what they 
would say when they saw their Christmas presents from 
Korea. 

One day in the fall a procession of little girls, all 
carrying paper parcels carefully in their hands, marched 
up at the play hour to the teacher-lady's room. 

“Will you please open them, dear teacher-lady?” said 
Poona, who led the way. “They are gifts for Jesus’ Birth¬ 
day to be sent to those kind girls in America who have 
sent presents to us so often.” 


HOW CHRISTMAS CAME BACK 


137 


The teacher opened the parcels with care and spread 
their contents on her bed, on her table, on her trunk—on 
everything in the room that would hold them. 

There were needle-books, pin cushions, watch cases, 
thimble holders, and all sorts of dainty articles, every one 
so odd and oriental in style that no one could doubt that 
they came from the Far East. Besides, every girl had 
made a tiny doll out of carefully folded cloth or carved 
wood. The faces were painted on them with the contents 
of Poona's paint box, and each girl had cut from her own 
head the smooth, black hair that adorned the head of her 
doll. Every doll had several dresses, many of them 
beaded and embroidered heavily. Moksie’s was dressed all 
in yellow silk, made according to her mother’s description, 
just like the dress the court lady had given her. 

“Why, girls, these are beautiful—just beautiful!” ex¬ 
claimed the teacher over and over as she examined the 
neat work. “They are as pretty and well-made as anything 
I could buy in the largest shops in the bazaar. You could 
make a great deal of money if you wanted to make things 
like these to sell.” 

Poona shook her head. “These are too good to sell,” 
she declared. “They were made for Jesus’ Birthday gifts, 
and they are the very best we could make; and they are 
all full of love besides, and you can’t sell that, can you, 
dear teacher-lady?” 

“No,” said the teacher softly, “that is something that 
cannot be bought or sold. The girls in America shall have 
these beautiful gifts, dear girls; every society that has 
sent you a box shall have at least one gift.” 

“And tell them,” said Poona, “that we send goodwill 
back to them, so that there need never, never be a Jesus’ 
Birthday in America without it, no matter how much 
they send across the sea.” 


WHEN UME SAN CUT HER HAIR 


“I wonder,” said Miss Dodge, the organist, watching the 
little chapel of the Japanese mission fill with its accus¬ 
tomed audience of small brown men and women, “what 
has become of Mr. Oyama?” 

“Hiro Oyama?” asked the preacher, who had been 
laboring for five years among the Japanese of this Cali¬ 
fornia city, and knew most of them by name. “He has 
not been here for some weeks, I have noticed.” 

“And he was always so faithful,” added Miss Dodge. 
“Oh, here he comes!” she suddenly exclaimed. “After the 
service I am going to tell him we missed him. He always 
makes himself so useful.” 

Mr. Oyama, a bright-looking young Japanese, was 
already making himself useful by handing out books and 
finding seats for late comers. The grace and politeness 
of the self-appointed usher brought more than one shy 
visitor to a front seat, who would otherwise have slipped 
out into the night again on finding the rear benches occu¬ 
pied. 

“Hiro is a jewel,” said the minister, watching him. 
“Well, Miss Dodge, it is almost time. Have you selected 
an opening hymn?” 

After the service was over, Hiro Oyama came of his 
own accord to the platform to meet the questions of the 
minister and Miss Dodge. A curious bashfulness hung 
about him as he advanced. 

“Well, Hiro, where have you been?” asked the pastor, 
with a friendly grasp of the hand. “We have missed you 
very much. Not sick, I hope?” 

“No, honorable sir, thank you very much,” said Hiro, 
bowing profoundly. “I am much grieved that I have not 
138 


WHEN UME SAN CUT HER HAIR 


139 


come to the meetings of late; but I have been like the 
man in the parable—I have married a wife.” 

“Married, Hiro ? I didn’t know you had any young lady 
in view as a wife,” said the pastor, surprised. Japanese 
betrothals and weddings are usually elaborate affairs, con¬ 
ducted with much ceremony. Hiro’s sallow cheeks red¬ 
dened. 

“I have not arranged any marriage here,” he said, with 
painful embarrassment. “I—I sent for my wife to Japan.” 

“Sent for her?” exclaimed Miss Dodge. “Not one of the 
picture-brides ?” 

Hiro bowed silently, and drew from his pocket a por¬ 
trait of a pretty little Japanese maiden. Many young 
Japanese in our Western States get brides in this way 
from Japan, never having seen anything of the girl but 
her picture, sent by agents from the Flowery Isles, who 
arrange the terms of the marriage and send the brides 
over. The Mission workers do not encourage this way of 
selecting brides, and Hiro felt that he was under the 
shadow of their disapproval. 

“But, Hiro,” said the minister, recovering his voice, 
“that need not have kept you from Church. I should think 
you would want all the more to come, and bring your 
wife with you.” 

“My wife,” said Hiro, hesitating, “she will not come 
to your honorable Church with me. She—she has been 
brought up a Buddhist, sir.” 

“A Buddhist, Hiro, and you are a Christian? How 
were you married, then?” 

“Buddhist ceremony over in Japan,” explained Hiro. 
“Very honorable ancient ceremony, sir.” 

“No Christian marriage, Hiro?” 

“She is very strong Buddhist, honorable sir,” said Hiro 
patiently. “By-and-by I try to show her it is good to be 
Christian. Now she will not hear one word about Christ. 


140 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


She very angry about my going to Christian Church; but 
I say I must come tonight; you are my friends, you will 
think I am deserting you. Soon she see it is best to come 
with me.” 

Pastor and organist shook their heads doubtingly. They 
had seen such cases before, and it was usually the heathen 
religion, with all its old memories of the home land, that 
conquered in the end. 

“Ah, Hiro, why couldn’t you have chosen some nice 
Christian girl here in America?” sighed the pastor. “But 
never mind; she is your wife now, and you must be very 
kind to her, and try to show her that Christians make good 
husbands. If she is to be won to Christ it must be the 
goodness of your life that does it, for that is all she will 
see of Christians if she does not come to Church.” 

Hiro flushed again. He could not recall having been 
particularly kind to the lonely little bride, homesick in a 
strange land, whose appeals had kept him for three whole 
weeks from his beloved chapel. He had spoken harshly 
to her this evening, telling her that wives did not rule 
their husbands, even in America, and she could do as she 
pleased—he was going to church. 

“Ume San,” he said rather stiffly, “will learn that my 
religion is to be hers.” 

“She looks like a very sweet little girl, Hiro,” said the 
pastor, inspecting the picture which the young man still 
held in his hand. “Don’t try to drive her, but be gentle with 
her, and we will all pray that she may come with you 
willingly some day.” 

Hiro bowed, with a somewhat less stern expression on 
his face, and turned toward the little home where he had 
left Ume San in tears before her little bronze image of 
Buddha, brought from Japan. 

The narrow little stairs were very dark, and he stum¬ 
bled several times in going up. The room at the top was 


WHEN UME SAN CUT HER HAIR 


141 


dark also, and a fear gripped Hiro’s heart that Ume San 
had run away from him. His hand trembled as he struck 
a light. 

She was not in the first room. With lighted match 
he pushed on into the little sleeping room. There on the 
bed, asleep, with the tear stains on her face, lay Ume San; 
but why did she look so strange, and what was that black 
heap beside her? The match suddenly went out. Hiro 
was so much excited that he could hardly see to light the 
little gas jet above the table. When he turned to look 
again, Ume San was sitting up; and that which lay beside 
her on the bed, black and glossy as jet, was her long, dark 
hair! She had cut it all off close to her head, as Japanese 
women do in sign of very great sorrow. 

“Ume San!” gasped Hiro. “What have you done?” 

The little girl—she was not over sixteen—looked down 
at the lengths of beautiful hair, and put one hand to her 
unevenly cropped head. Then her trouble all came back 
to her, and she began to sob quietly. 

“Tell me, child, what have you done this for?” de¬ 
manded Hiro. 

“You would go to that terrible Christian place,” sobbed 
Ume San, “and I could not make you stay with me. So 
I cut off my hair to make you sorry you went. You will 
stay with me now, will you not, honorable husband?” she 
begged in her most coaxing tones. 

Hiro was a Christian, and by nature a gentleman; but 
he was very angry and turned coldly away from his girl 
bride. 

“You are not likely to make me want to stay with 
you by making yourself look like one of your Buddhist 
priests with a shaved head,” he said, and left the room. 

“Then I will cut off my head next time!” shrieked Ume 
San frantically after him, and threw herself on the bed 
again. Her great sacrifice had all been in vain! Her hair 


142 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


was gone, and instead of making Hiro feel how much she 
would give up to keep him from the dangers of the false 
religion, as it seemed to her, she had only driven him 
away in anger. He stayed a long while in the outer room, 
and came back only when long silence made him believe 
that Ume San was asleep again. 

Several days passed very unhappily for both Hiro and 
Ume San. They spoke as little as possible; Hiro went to 
his work and came back, ate and slept, with no glances at 
the poor little shorn head or the little brown hands that 
trembled as they set his tea before him. 

One day the loneliness became too much for Ume San. 
She was afraid to go out alone in the big city, but any¬ 
thing was better than sitting there in her unhappiness. She 
dressed in her best, threw a scarf over her cropped head, 
and started out like a timid little mouse creeping from its 
hole. 

On and on she wandered, wondering much at the strange 
sights and sounds. Presently she was outside the Japanese 
quarter and among the big American stores. She almost 
forgot her troubles in wonder at the beautiful things she 
saw in the windows, and she walked on from one to an¬ 
other, completely losing her way, until she came to a 
street where traffic roared about her on every side, and she 
realized that she was lost. 

The crowd pressed her onward. Then suddenly, on the 
busiest street crossing, it seemed as if all the throng of 
people had deserted her, and she was alone in the midst 
of rushing wheels. The rest of the crowd had stopped at 
the signal of a policeman; Ume San had not seen or under¬ 
stood it, and now she was in the middle of the street, a 
scared little figure, with trolley cars clanging their bells 
and automobiles frantically blowing their horns at her, 
only confusing her more. 


WHEN UME SAN CUT HER HAIR 


143 


Suddenly a firm hand caught her elbow and dragged her 
back to the pavement. The face she looked up into was 
that of an American lady, but the words that came from 
the kind lips of her rescuer were Japanese. 

“Poor little girl! You were almost run over. You have 
not been downtown alone before, have you? Tell me where 
you live and I will take you home.” 

Ume San was almost too frightened to answer. Some¬ 
how she had managed to remember the name of the 
street—it was a Japanese name that sounded like home to 
her when Hiro had told it to her—and she stammeringly 
told the lady what it was. 

“Away back there! Never mind, child, I’ll see you safe 
home again; but never try to come down here alone, or 
you may be hurt. What were you doing here anyway ?” 

Ume San’s fright and the kindness of the stranger’s 
voice drew tears to her eyes. Before she knew it, there 
on the crowded street as they walked along, she was pour¬ 
ing out to the kind American lady all the story of her 
homesickness, her loneliness and her grief because her 
husband was angry with her. A few kindly questions 
drew from her the whole story of how her husband was 
entrapped by those dreadful Christians, who taught him 
to be disrespectful to the divine Buddha, and would cer¬ 
tainly make him leave her altogether if he did not stop 
going to worship with them. The lady smiled a little at 
this, but made no comment. When Ume San told her 
about the loss of her hair she only said, “Poor, foolish 
child! But you know you can have it made up into a wig, 
so that you can wear it until your hair grows again.” 

Ume San caught gladly at the suggestion. The lady 
promised to show her a place where it could be done. 
Perhaps if she showed Hiro that she was sorry he would 
be kinder to her. 


144 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


It was growing dusk when they reached the street with 
the Japanese name. Suddenly there came a rush of eager 
footsteps, and hands that caught Ume San in a strong 
clasp, and a voice full of excitement, not like Hiro’s 
calmly polite tones, saying, “Ume San! Ume San, where 
have you been ? Oh, Miss Dodge, where did you find her ?” 

“Down on Main Avenue, getting run over, or very 
nearly so!” replied the lady. 

“Ume San,” continued Hiro, still holding tight to her 
hand, “this is the Christian lady from the Mission, who 
plays the songs we sing. Oh, I am so glad she found you! 
Won’t you forgive me, Ume San?” 

Ume San could not speak for amazement. This kind, 
good lady one of those dreadful Christians? She could 
hardly believe her ears. 

There in the dusk on her own doorstep she cast a look 
of sweetest understanding on the pleading Hiro; then 
turning to Miss Dodge, she said, “And you will take me 
soon, honorable lady, to the hair-dresser? For I want to 
wear my hair again, so I can go with my husband to his 
Christian worship-house next Sunday.” 


THE BOOK SAN ANTONIO HID 

In a little farmhouse lying in a valley of the mountain 
region of New Mexico, a bright open fire was glowing 
one frosty autumn night. On the hearth before it lay two 
prostrate figures, a man, and a boy about nine years old. 
Before them on the floor was lying a well-worn picture 
card. It was not the picture they were studying so in¬ 
tently—a poor copy of one of Raphael’s Madonnas—but 
the words printed in Spanish on the back. 

“I see it, father!” cried the boy eagerly. “I can spell 
it out now—J-e-s-u. It is the name of the blessed Jesus, 
is it not, father ?” 

“Yes, Pedro,” said Juan Carreno, crossing himself de¬ 
voutly. “That is the name of our Lord. Ah, how many 
nights, lying here before the fire, I puzzled my poor brains 
and strained my eyes trying to spell out the blessed name!” 

The dog, lying outside the door, began to bark. 

“Someone is coming!” said Pedro. “Carlo never barks 
like that unless he hears someone.” 

A knock at the door brought them both to their feet 
and stirred the rest of the group around the fire. Juan’s 
wife, Rosita, laid down her sewing; his sisters, Pepita and 
Juana, looked up from the beautiful piece of drawn-work 
they were making for sale by the light of a flickering 
candle; even the old grandparents woke from their dozing 
and their eyes brightened with interest. Visitors were 
scarce in the little valley. 

A young man, lithe and vigorous, with a traveler’s pack 
strapped upon his shoulders, stood in the doorway. 

“Why, it is Manuel—our cousin, Manuel!” exclaimed 
Juan after a moment of indecision. “Come in! Come in! 

145 


146 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


How well you look, cousin, and how tall you have grown! 
It is a long time since we saw you—but, then, you have 
been far away.” 

“Yes, away up in Colorado,” said Manuel, greeting one 
after another of his relatives. “Will you take me in for a 
little visit ? I had not time to let you know I was coming, 
for it is an unexpected trip. I came down with a man who 
is buying cattle, to act as interpreter. He was taken ill 
and has to stay for some weeks in the hospital at Santa Fe, 
and in the meantime I can come home here and wait for 
him.” 

“We are glad to have you,” said Juan, and all the fam¬ 
ily circle echoed the words, for they all loved the orphan 
cousin. The old grandmother stroked his hand fondly, 
saying, “It is a lucky day that brings you back to us, my 
child.” 

“And what have you been doing with yourself, Man¬ 
uel?” questioned his cousin Juana. 

“Oh, I have been working at different things and seeing 
many places. I have seen the Grand Canyon and lived in 
the city of Denver; I have earned some money, and 
gained some knowledge, too, I hope. I met a kind man 
who preaches in a Mission, and he has taught me to read.” 

“To read!” cried little Pedro in excitement. “That is 
what Father and I were trying to do when you knocked 
at the door. See, this is what we read!” And he picked up 
the card lying on the hearth and presented it to his cousin. 

“What is this?” inquired Manuel, scanning it by the 
firelight. “Oh, yes, a card with the Apostles’ Creed on it 
in Spanish. I did not know you could read, cousin,” he 
said to Juan. His cousin’s face flushed. “That is all I 
can read, Manuel,” he admitted, “but I am trying to teach 
Pedro what little I know.” 

“How comes it that you can read only this?” asked 
Manuel curiously. 


THE BOOK SAN ANTONIO HID 


147 


“It is too long a story to tell you all,” said Juan, “but 
I will explain as well as I can. You see, when I was a 
little fellow I wanted very badly to learn to read. Young 
Jose Gamboa, the son of our rich neighbor, went away to 
Santa Fe to school, and I used to lie awake at nights and 
pray to the saints—to San Antonio, whose image was in 
the niche above my bed—that I might have a chance to go 
too. Then my father, as you know, fell and hurt himself, 
and has been lame ever since; so I knew I was needed at 
home and gave up all thoughts of going away.” 

“And a good son he has been,” put in the old father 
from his chair by the fire. 

“Still,” went on Juan, “I thought I might learn a little 
at home. I knew the priest could read, for he reads mass 
every Sunday out of a book; so one day, when I was about 
fifteen years old, I went and asked him to teach me. I 
offered him a season’s wool from one of my best sheep for 
it; but he was very angry, and set me a heavy penance 
for what he called my ‘sin of presumption.’ It was then 
I learned that the priests do not want the people to learn 
to read; they say it is dangerous and makes them unbe¬ 
lievers ; but I do not see why. 

“So the years went on, and by the time I was twenty 
I had a wife and little Pedro here. When he was chris¬ 
tened—and a whole cow we paid the priest to do it, to be 
sure!—the priest gave him this little card. He told me 
the words on this side were the credo. 

“Then I was very glad, for I knew the credo by heart 
and I thought, ‘Now I can learn to read, for I can say the 
words I know and see what they look like on the card.’ 

“It was very hard at first, for I could only tell by the 
spaces between them where one word ended and another 
began. Pedro was five years old before I had puzzled 
them all out; and even then I knew only those words which 
were on the card. It is too bad there are so few words in 


148 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


the credo. Now I am trying to teach them to Pedro, and 
he learns quicker than I did; but, then, I had nobody to 
help me. How I wish I could learn to read all the words 
there are!” 

“Cousin Juan,” said Manuel quickly, “you can learn 
now, and Pedro, too. See,” he continued, pulling out a 
little Book from his pocket, “here is the whole Bible in 
Spanish. I will teach you gladly, for I can read it all.” 

Pedro clapped his hands, and Juan’s dark eyes glowed 
in the firelight. 

“We will begin tomorrow,” he said. 

The weeks which Manuel spent in the little valley were 
wonderful ones to all the people in that scattered commu¬ 
nity. None of them had ever traveled farther than Santa 
Fe, and the stories Manuel good-naturedly related of the 
big world he had seen were like fairy tales to these simple 
people. By day the neighbors left their work and came in 
to visit and ask questions; but in the evening there were 
still more wonderful times around the fire, when Manuel 
taught Juan and quick-witted little Pedro the rest of the 
alphabet, and pored with them over the little Bible. 

He told them many things, too, which he had learned 
from the Protestant missionary in Colorado, about the 
false teachings of the Roman Catholic Church and the 
truth as it is shown in God’s Word. 

Juan listened without objection to his criticism of the 
priests; but when Manuel went on to say that the saints 
were not to be prayed to, his cousin grew angry. 

“Not pray to the good San Antonio, who has stood 
above my bed all these years and protected me from harm ? 
Not to pray to San Juan, for whom I was named? to San 
Pedro, the patron saint of my boy? to the Virgin Mother 
herself? Fie, Manuel; this is heresy you have learned!” 
and he would hear no more of it. 


THE BOOK SAN ANTONIO HID 


149 


But Pepita and Juana were greatly interested, and in¬ 
clined to side with Manuel. Rosita listened eagerly, too, 
though she would not anger her husband by contradicting 
him. Even the old grandparents nodded their heads 
wisely over Manuel’s words, and begged him to read 
again and again from the little Bible. Pedro drank it in 
like a draught of honey, and could soon read aloud to the 
old folks almost as well as Manuel. 

One evening their peace was rudely disturbed. A loud 
knocking at the door made them open, to admit the priest 
in a great fury. “What is going on here?” he cried as 
soon as he had crossed the doorstep. “You are teaching 
these people to read, against my commands, out of a for¬ 
bidden book, and talking treason against the saints and 
the Church.” 

“It is no treason,” said Manuel steadily. “It is only what 
God Himself says in His book.” 

“The book lies!” shouted the priest furiously. “You 
shall leave the valley at once, before your heresy has 
tainted the rest of my flock. Already some of the neigh¬ 
bors tell me you have talked to them of these things. Take 
your book and go! And as for these people”—turning to 
the family—“unless they give up these evil thoughts, I 
will warn all the neighbors to shun them. No one in the 
whole valley will speak to them or enter their dwelling. 
They shall be cast out of the Church. Do you hear?” he 
said fiercely to Juan. Manuel answered for them all. 

“Yes, we hear you, man of wrath,” he said boldly, “and 
I will tell you what you have done for me. Up to now, 
though I believed what I read in God’s book, I could not 
bring myself to break away from the Church of my 
fathers; but now I declare that I am no Roman Catholic, 
and never will be one any more. The teachings of your 
Church are false, you priests are tyrants, and the people 
are kept in ignorance by you, because you are afraid to 


150 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


have them learn the truth. I am going back to join that 
little Protestant Mission, where I learned to read God's 
book and to know what is true.” 

After the priest had departed in a rage Manuel turned 
to Juan. “Dear cousin,” he said, “tomorrow was my day 
to leave you, at any rate, and perhaps it is well. I am 
going, but I give you my little Bible; I can easily get an¬ 
other. Read it, and pray to Christ, not to the saints. I 
am going back again across the mountains to ask the 
missionary to teach me more, and some day I am coming 
back to teach the poor people who are kept from the truth 
by such men as this priest of yours.” 

After Manuel was gone Juan and Rosita did every¬ 
thing they could to pacify the priest. They went to mass, 
they did the heavy penances he set them, but all to no pur¬ 
pose. The priest refused to be satisfied unless they gave 
up the Bible, which he suspected Manuel had left behind. 

One day, coming home from church, Juan took from 
little Pedro’s hands the Bible, from which he had been 
reading to his grandparents. 

“Little book,” said Juan, handling it reverently, “you 
have taught me many things. Whether all is in you that 
Manuel says, I am not certain; but this I know, that the 
man who calls himself God’s priest is no friend to me or 
you. I will hide you away, for I think ^he is coming to 
look for you. 

“Where can I put you ? This is only a small house, and 
he will search every part of it. He will soon be here, and 
I have no time to dig in the earth and bury you. 

“San Antonio stands ever in the niche in the wall above 
my bed, as he has stood these many years. Perhaps it is 
true that he is not good to pray to for all things; he did 
not grant my prayer to go away to school. But often when 
I have lost something I have prayed to San Antonio to 
help me find it, and he has almost always done so. 


THE BOOK SAN ANTONIO HID 


151 


“People who are good at finding should be good at 
hiding, too. It happens that San Antonio has a hollow 
base beneath his image—large enough to hold a little book. 
There, San Antonio; will you kindly hide my Bible for 
me ?” 

Tilting the plaster image, Juan laid the book in the 
hollow pedestal and replaced San Antonio just as Pedro 
ran in to tell his father that the priest was coming up the 
hill. 

Not that day only, but many another day San Antonio 
faithfully guarded the Bible. Friends turned against Juan 
and his family, and persecutions began. Time after time 
the old farmhouse was searched for the book, and Juan 
was threatened with all sorts of punishment if he did not 
give it up. But nobody ever thought of looking for the 
“Protestant book” under the statue of a Roman Catholic 
saint. Juan and San Antonio kept the secret well, and at 
night, with one of the family to watch always by the door, 
the book came out of hiding and many comfortable words 
were read to console them in all their troubles. 

* * * * * 

Two whole years had passed away; they were stormy 
years for Juan and his family. The old father had died, 
heartbroken at the enmity of his neighbors, but trusting in 
the Christ who had said, “Blessed are ye when men shall 
revile you and persecute you.” The grandmother was 
childish now, but could still repeat a verse or two which 
she had committed to memory. Pepita and Juana now 
read the Bible for themselves, and believed it with all their 
hearts. 

Rosita’s relatives had disowned her when they learned 
of Juan's heresy. They had even threatened to kill him, 
and at one time the whole family had fled and lived for 
weeks in a one-room hut high on the mountainside. The 
storm had blown over and they had come back with the 


152 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


little book—which had gone along up the mountain—to 
find San Antonio still standing, waiting to hide it again. 

One day a horseman came riding up the valley, and 
Pedro, who first caught sight of him, ran in shouting, 
“Manuel! Manuel!” 

What a happy meeting it was! How they talked over 
the fire that night, and how they rejoiced when Manuel 
told them that he was now a preacher of the truth and 
that he had come to prepare the way for a new Mission 
which a great American missionary was going to establish 
nearby. That great man was Sheldon Jackson, one of the 
most devoted and powerful preachers of God’s Word our 
country has ever known. 

Under the shadow of such an influence great changes 
came to the little valley. Many people, disgusted by the 
cruelty and injustice of the priest toward Juan and his 
family, began to inquire about the book of God and the 
truth it taught. The new faith grew stronger and stronger, 
and no one was persecuted any more for reading God’s 
Word. 

One day Juan stood thoughtfully before the statue of 
San Antonio, his Bible in his hand. 

“It is hardly proper,” he said at last, “for the image 
of a saint to stand guard above the bed of a Protestant. 
But you have been very good to me, San Antonio. I do 
not pray to you any more, for I know that Christ alone 
answers our prayers. But for the sake of the secret you 
kept and the little book you hid through all those evil 
days, San Antonio, you shall stand here as long as I live, 
and watch me read my little Bible.” 


THE SCHOOL THAT WAS ADOPTED 


It was evening, and the missionary pastor was sitting 
on the veranda of his bungalow, enjoying with his wife the 
coolness of the dusk after the long, hot day. 

“Someone is coming up the walk,” whispered Mrs. 
Clark. “Oh, I did hope you could rest this evening!” 

“Why, Rambhau!” said Doctor Clark, rising to greet 
the visitor. “I am glad to see you. Did you walk all the 
eight miles in from Khandala?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Rambhau respectfully. “I wanted to 
have a little talk with you, if you have time.” 

“Certainly I have. Sit down here on the veranda with 
us.” 

Rambhau seated himself. He was a sturdy, heavy-set 
man of middle age, neatly but plainly dressed in native 
costume. His homely face, swarthy from many summers 
beneath the hot sun of India, was gentle and thoughtful 
in expression, his eyes large and dreamy. He looked just 
what he was—a fair type of an Indian Christian of one 
of the lower castes, from a quiet little village, where peo¬ 
ple took life easily, and did not worry about trying to 
accomplish great things. 

“And you are well, Rambhau, and the wife?” inquired 
Doctor Clark. “You are in town for the night?” 

“Oh, no, I am going home tonight again,” said Ram¬ 
bhau. “The moonlight will make the walking pleasant; 
besides, my wife will be eager to have me return.” 

“Why, what have you been doing in town ? Buying her 
calico for a new dress?” asked the missionary, smiling. 

“I came in to see you, sir,” said Rambhau. “You see, 
since we have been Christians my wife and I have been 
very much happier than we ever were before. We have 

153 


154 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


always lived a quiet, peaceful life; but we have had one 
great sorrow. No children have ever come to share our 
home. 

“We used to think that was because the gods were 
angry with us. But now we know it is not so, and we are 
not grieved about it as we were. Yet we are very lonely. 
And we have been talking together, and wondering if we 
could not find a child to adopt, so that there might be one 
to till the ground and live in the house after us.” 

“Why, Rambhau, that is an excellent idea!” said Doctor 
Clark. “Did you want me to help you find a child to 
adopt? There are plenty of them here in the orphanage.” 

“That is what I want to ask.” replied Rambhau. “If it 
is right that we do so, we will take an orphan from here. 
But my father, and his before him, and back farther than 
we can count, were men of Khandala—born there, living 
always in the village, loving every foot of grounud there. 
Would a child of strangers love Khandala so? Might he 
not some day go away and leave the old home to those who 
would not care for it? 

“First we said ‘Let us look for an orphan in Khandala.’ 
But we know no child there who has not someone to care 
for him, either parents or grandparents. Then we said, 
‘Let us go into the school and watch the children there; 
we can see what a true son of Khandala would be like, 
and if we must go outside our village to choose, we will 
choose a child as nearly like the children of our village as 
may be.’ 

“We both went to visit the school once or twice; but my 
wife is not strong, and the walk to the school is hot. So 
she stayed at home; but I made a little visit to the school 
almost every day. 

“There were not many children in the school, as you 
know, sir. Since there were so few, I soon came to know 
each one. They were all different, but all such good, dear 


THE SCHOOL THAT WAS ADOPTED 155 

children! Even if they were stupid, I loved them; and 
they loved me, for I took them fruit from my trees, and 
little cakes my wife made. Soon I came home and said, 
‘Manorama, I could never choose between those children, 
if I could have any one I wanted; I would have to adopt 
them all!’ 

“Then Manorama said, ‘Rambhau, while we wait for a 
child to adopt, why do we not adopt the school?’ And I 
said, ‘What do you mean?’ She said, ‘We have more than 
we need for ourselves; we could spend some money, and 
we could give some time to the care of a child if we had 
one. Can w r e not give that time and money to help all the 
children in the school, since you love them all ?’ 

“ ‘Manorama,’ I said, ‘you are a wise woman, and I will 
begin today. The teacher said there were some children 
who were older, and work in the day. They had asked 
him to have a school for them at night. But he is a little 
lazy, you know; and he told them the mission people did 
not allow much money for running the school, and he 
could not buy oil for the lamp, to teach them at night. To¬ 
night I am going down to fill the lamp with oil, and tell 
him he can teach those boys and girls!’ ” 

Dr. Clark smiled in the darkness. He could see plainly 
in his mind the face of the fat, easy-going native teacher 
who was the best the mission could afford for the little 
school in Khandala. 

“I do not think the teacher was too well pleased at first,” 
went on Rambhau, “but he opened the night school. After 
a few days I said to Manorama, ‘Children grow, if they 
are healthy. The school is our child; we must help it to 
grow. There are children in the village whose parents are 
careless and do not send them. Some of them are poor, 
and the children have no clothing to wear to school. We 
must see about these things.’ 


156 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“So I went from house to house, all through the village, 
to see why the children were not at school. Manorama 
gathered the needy ones and gave them cloth, and showed 
the girls how to make garments. Soon our child, the 
school, was twice as large, and we were twice as happy. 

“The teacher sometimes was careless and made excuses. 
He said he had not the things he needed for teaching, 
and so he could not do this, or he could not do that. I said 
to him, ‘Very well, you shall have what you need/ I got 
him to make me a list, and here are the things he said 
were needed. I do not think he expected I would get 
them; but the school is my child, and I do not want it 
badly taught.” 

Rambhau unfolded a lengthy list of school supplies, 
and presented it to Doctor Clark. 

“So I have brought it to you,” he continued, “to order 
all these things for me. The school must have what it 
needs.” 

“Why, Rambhau!” exclaimed Doctor Clark, “This is 
splendid! You are making the school over new !” 

Rambhau’s plain face glowed with pleasure. 

“You will come out to see us soon?” he said. “There is 
a school festival next Friday; there will be prizes given. 
Will you come and present them?” 

The following Friday Doctor and Mrs. Clark were 
early at the little schoolhouse in Khandala; but, early as 
they were, the ground and building were already filled 
with a throng of eager parents and excited children. 

“Here comes Rambhau! Oh, look at him!” whispered 
the missionary’s wife. “There is a perfect swarm of 
children about him. How they love him; and how de¬ 
lighted he is!” 

“I can guess who is giving the prizes,” returned her 
husband. “This school never had a prize before, except 
picture cards that came in mission boxes from America. 


THE SCHOOL THAT WAS ADOPTED 


157 


The teacher tells me the prizes today are books, drawing 
sets and school bags, all of the best. The children, he says, 
are working harder at their lessons than they ever did, 
and really deserve these nice things. 

“I can see a difference in the teacher too. Somehow he 
looks wakened up. I expect it is hard to be lazy where 
Rambhau is.” 

“Hush ! The exercises are going to begin.” 

After the children had gone through their exercises 
with flying colors and had received their prizes—Rambhau 
had seen to it that not a child there had failed to receive 
something, if only a pencil—Doctor Clark met him in the 
midst of the crowd, with two or three children clinging 
to each hand, to the discomfort of his fingers, which 
were almost pulled apart, but to the great joy of his soul, 
judging by his rapturous expression. Manorama was 
somewhere in the background with a basket of cakes, and 
every child was sticky and happy. 

“Am I not a happy father ?” asked Rambhau, laughing. 
“And now I want to tell you something more. 

“Last night I said to Manorama, ‘It is not good to 
show partiality. When one child is petted and another 
neglected, there is sorrow and jealousy. Now the 
church here in Khandala is the big sister of the school. 
The sister is neglected, while the little brother is tenderly 
cared for. That is the old way of treating children in 
India—the heathen way; but it is not the Christian way.’ ” 

“You don’t mean to say that you are going to adopt the 
church, too!” said Doctor Clark in amazement. 

“Why not?” asked Rambhau placidly. “It needs many 
things—a new roof, a bell, Bibles and music books. Some 
day, if we get our church repaired and our people gath¬ 
ered in, perhaps the missionaries will give us a pastor to 
live among us, and not just a preacher to visit us once a 
month.” 


158 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“I am quite sure of it, Rambhau,” said Doctor Clark. 
“In fact, as missionary superintendent of this district, I 
can promise you one, if you can build up the church as 
you have the school. There is a fine young man in our 
training school who will soon be ready for you. 

“These adopted children of yours are a very interesting 
family, my friend. But what becomes of the child of 
Khandala, who was to live in your house and till your 
ground after you?” 

“Who can tell ?” said Rambhau, and his large dark eyes 
were dreamier than ever. “Perhaps some day the school 
will grow so large that they will need a home for more 
teachers. Perhaps they will want a schoolhouse for the 
very little ones—ah, yes, a kindergarten. The grounds 
would do well for a playground, maybe. All we have, 
sooner or later, will belong to our children. 

“But here comes Manorama with the cakes. Will you 
try one?” 


FIGHTERS OF FIRE 


“The Red Flower! The Red Flower!” screamed Yuan, 
running out into the street. It did not sound like any¬ 
thing to scream about, but it was really the Chinese way of 
crying, “Fire! Fire!” 

Behind him a tongue of flame leaped from the open 
door. Another appeared at the window, and soon the 
roof of the little house was being devoured by many more. 
Before Yuan was around the corner, the big frame ware¬ 
house next door was beginning to blaze. 

Yuan had never been so frightened in all the seven 
years of his life. He had been so busy making himself a 
new kite that he had not noticed a piece of string which 
had fallen into the brazier, with one end among the live 
coals and the other in a nest of his papers. Before he knew 
it the whole pile was ablaze. There was no water in the 
little house, and he had tried to beat out the flames with 
his hands, almost setting his clothing on fire. In doing so 
he knocked over the whole brazier, and the coals flew 
all over the floor. He had so many papers scattered about 
that soon he found himself in a ring of fire. He made a 
dash for the door and was now running down the street, 
making as much noise as possible. 

There was no alarm-box on the corner in that Chinese 
city of Kiating; neither was there a great shiny engine 
to come leaping down the street at the thundering heels of 
powerful horses. Nobody in Kiating—very few people m 
all China, in fact—had any idea that there were such ways 
of fighting the Red Flower. There was no hose, no plug 
to fasten it to if there had been one—nothing but hands 
and buckets to fight that great and terrible enemy. 

159 


160 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Yuan went on, running and screaming, and people began 
to come out of their houses and hasten toward the blazing 
buildings. Yuan’s home was in an ill-built, crowded street, 
whose frail wooden buildings caught and burned like dead 
grass on a prairie. The whole street was soon in flames, 
and the fire was creeping rapidly into the next block. 

People were running frantically from the houses, trying 
to save what bits of property they could. Women were 
dragging their children from under roofs already burning; 
the children were crying with terror, dogs were howling, 
chickens were squawking with fright in their pens. Every¬ 
body was trying to do everything but to put out the fire. 

Yuan’s mother, hurrying home from market, found no 
house to take her purchases into. She sat down in the 
street, under the rain of blazing cinders, and wailed aloud, 
joining her voice to those of other homeless women and 
children. If tears could have put out the flames there 
would have been water in plenty. 

A few people whose houses were in advance of the 
flames took buckets, drew water from their wells, and 
mounted to the roofs of their homes to drench them with 
water and try to prevent the fire from kindling on them. 
But the air was like a great furnace; the flames swept 
nearer and nearer, and the roofs were soon abandoned. 

Meantime Yuan ran blindly on, screaming as he went. 
The fire was far behind him now; he was in a part of the 
city which was in no danger, for the wind was from it 
toward the quarter where the fire had started. 

“What’s all this?” suddenly cried a man’s voice, and a 
strong hand arrested Yuan in his flight. “Here, youngster, 
what are you yelling about?” 

The words were Chinese, but the accent was strange 
to Yuan. He opened his eyes wide and found himself in 
the hands of one of the dreaded “foreign devils,” as he 
was accustomed to hear all foreigners called. He screamed 


FIGHTERS OF FIRE 


161 


harder than ever and tried to twist away from the firm 
hand, but found it useless. 

“Doctor Hobart, what’s wrong with this boy?” asked 
his captor. “He keeps screaming about a red flower. What 
does he mean?” 

The elder missionary paused to listen. 

“He means fire,” he explained to his young assistant. 
“That’s what they call it; and look! It must be a big one!” 
He pointed to the sky, where a mighty column of smoke 
was beginning to ascend. 

“In this dry weather their little wooden houses will burn 
like tinder,” he declared. “The destruction will be ter¬ 
rible. Come, Shipley, let’s hurry back to the school and get 
the fellows out to help.” 

As they hastened along Doctor Hobart explained fur¬ 
ther. 

“You see, they haven’t the least idea what to do; I 
doubt if we shall find even a bucket brigade at work. The 
water, as you know, is all in wells or cisterns, and it must 
be very low after the long drought we have had. They say 
some parts of this city have been rebuilt dozens of times— 
burned out over and over again. The people get into the 
habit of not building substantial houses, expecting them to 
be destroyed anyway, and that makes the danger of fire 
still greater.” 

Arriving at the mission school for young men, the two 
missionaries hastily passed the word around. Teachers 
and pupils poured out of the building; there would have 
been some pausing to argue about the whereabouts of the 
fire, but Doctor Hobart declared it would be better to 
start toward it and inquire on the way. 

“Doctor,” said one of the instructors, a young Chinese 
in spectacles, “there is no danger to these buildings from 
the fire, is there ?” 


162 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“None at all, Cheng Mai; the wind is in the other di¬ 
rection,” said Doctor Hobart. 

“Then, why—pardon me—why should we leave our 
studies and intrude ourselves on this business which is none 
of ours?” questioned the young man. The missionary 
frowned slightly. 

“You see, Cheng Mai,” he explained patiently, “we 
must excuse you for not understanding, because you are 
not a Christian. Our religion teaches us that every man’s 
need is our business, if we are able to help him. You 
needn’t go if you are afraid,” he added, looking at the 
slight form of the teacher. Cheng Mai’s sallow cheeks 
flushed. 

“I will go along,” he said quietly. 

At the gate of the mission compound Yuan stood, crying 
more softly now. Mr. Shipley seized him again. 

“Here is our guide,” he said. “Come, young man, lead 
us back to where you came from and show us this Red 
Flower of yours.” Yuan shuddered, but obeyed. He 
hardly knew which he was more afraid of, the fire at 
home or the big voice and strong hand of the “foreign 
devil.” Yet the white man’s face, when he ventured to 
look up at it, seemed rather pleasant. 

So it happened that the fire-swept district presently 
found in its streets a band of willing young men, urging 
everybody who still had a bucket to bring it along, and 
help save somebody’s house, even if his own was gone. 

The bucket brigade, however, was quickly out of work. 
The water in the wells was too low to afford any real aid; 
the flames had too great a headway. Five blocks were al¬ 
ready gone and the fire seemed determined to sweep the 
dozen or more blocks that still lay between it and the open 
fields. The river was too far away to be of any use. 

“If we only had a hose and a good hand-pump!” 
groaned Mr. Shipley. 


FIGHTERS OF FIRE 


163 


“There is only one thing to do,” said Doctor Hobart at 
last. “We must tear down some of the houses and make 
a gap too wide for the fire to cross.” 

“They won’t let you,” declared Mr. Shipley. 

“See if they won’t,” said his friend, walking down the 
street toward the unburned blocks, whose owners were 
standing paralyzed, waiting for destruction to reach them. 
It took some argument, but finally they consented, and 
Doctor Hobart’s band of students quickly pulled down 
enough of the fragile houses to stop the progress of the 
flames. 

“Now,” said the good doctor, “we will go back and see 
what we can collect in the way of relief supplies for these 
homeless people.” Then to the men and women who had 
gathered around to thank him he said, with a hand on the 
head of Yuan, “Take good care of this young man; it 
was he who gave the alarm and brought us to help you.” 
And Yuan was so proud that he almost forgot he had 
started the fire himself. 

Five months later—events move slowly in China, and 
government officials more slowly still—the city council 
came in dignified procession to visit the mission school. 
They bore important-looking, long, white scrolls and pre¬ 
sented one to each of the missionary teachers.. On each 
scroll was written a long and profuse inscription of 
thanks and praise to the fighters of fire. Part of it read 
thus: 

“Although these foreigners owned no goods or houses 
in the danger zone, nor were in the least concerned, yet 
they ran to the public service. They earnestly looked upon 
the dangers of another people as if it were the urgent pain 
of their own skins.” 

Others besides Cheng Mai had evidently been surprised 
at the self-forgetfulness of the foreigners. Doctor Hobart, 
in his speech of thanks, proposed to the council the pur- 


164 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


chase of some hand-pumps and hose to prevent future des¬ 
olations, and when the dignitaries left, all smiling and 
bowing, things looked very promising for the organization 
of a volunteer fire department under the leadership of the 
missionaries. 

“I will never call the foreigners devils any more,” said 
many a citizen of Kiating whenever the fire was recalled 
to mind. “They ran to save my house as if it were their 
own. They are really and truly the people of heaven.” 


MOTTS MISTAKE 


Moti was a very busy boy. All day he had been hurry¬ 
ing about the streets, hastening up wherever he saw that 
a little crowd had gathered. Under the feet of the pass¬ 
ers-by he dodged wherever there was a chance of selling 
the sweetmeats from his little tray—the sweetmeats grand¬ 
mother had made for him to sell during this great Hindu 
mela, or festival of Brindaban. 

It was a good time for trade. Thousands of pilgrims 
had come to the city from all parts of India to perform 
the ceremonies of their religion at the shrines of the gods. 
There were tourists also from other lands, mingling their 
white faces with the dusky crowds. Moti had made many 
sales; his tray was almost empty now, but he was still 
darting busily about to see whatever was to be seen. 

“Here, boy!” called a man across the narrow street, and 
Moti plunged over, expecting a sale. Great was his sur¬ 
prise when the man put a hand on his shoulder and thrust 
him suddenly under an arched gateway into a large open 
court. Here, to his astonishment, a great crowd of boys 
w T as gathered and men in long robes and turbans were 
going about among them talking earnestly. 

Moti rubbed his eyes to make sure that he was not 
dreaming; all the more because the boys were street waifs 
of every caste, and the men who were mingling with them 
were high caste Brahmans, for whom it was defilement 
even to speak to one of a lower caste. Some great occasion 
must it be that would bring these haughty upholders of 
caste down to speaking with boys like himself. 

Presently one of the men came toward the group where 
Moti was standing and began to speak. 

165 


166 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“You may earn some money if you will,” he said, “and 
it will be very easy. The Christians have chosen the time 
of our mela to make a disturbance. They are going around 
in bands, preaching their doctrines and selling or giving 
away to the very poor their sacred books and tracts and 
explaining them. 

“We have gathered you to help us put an end to this 
trouble, which is an insult to our gods and an offence 
against the holiness of the mela. Wherever you see one 
of these people addressing a crowd you are to run among 
the people, making such a noise that the speaker cannot be 
heard. Whenever you get a chance you are to tear up the 
books and leaflets they sell. You will be well paid, and will 
be doing a service to the gods besides. Are you ready?” 

What small boy does not welcome an excuse for making 
a noise and tearing things up? The boys assented with 
whoops of joy. Moti, however, stood irresolute. 

He did not like the way the Brahman talked to the boys. 
While he spoke to them he kept his face averted and ut¬ 
tered the words as if he were talking to himself. He hated 
and despised them as much as ever, and was only hiring 
them to carry out his plans, not meeting them with real 
friendliness. 

Then Moti was not sure that he wanted to disturb the 
Christians. He knew that a Christian Bible-woman came 
sometimes to see his grandmother, and had been very kind 
to her when she was sick. The Christians, when they 
bought his sweetmeats, never tried to cheat him, and once 
a lady from the mission had interfered when a bigger boy 
had tried to rob his tray. 

The Christians had the wrong religion, no doubt. But 
they were harmless, kind-hearted people, and Moti did not 
relish the plan of making trouble for them. 

A Brahman saw him standing undetermined while the 
stream of boys went flowing past him out of the gate. 


MOTl’s MISTAKE 


167 


“Why do you hesitate ?” he said harshly. “Are you one 
of the wretched sect yourself, perhaps?” 

“Oh, no!” said Moti, frightened by the man’s vicious 
tone. “But I was sent out to sell sweetmeats, and they 
are not quite all gone. If I go into the crowds as you told 
us I shall lose my sweetmeats and perhaps my tray while 
I am busy tearing up books.” 

“Leave your tray here,” said the man. “It will be safe 
till you come back. The money you get for this service 
will be worth more than the sweetmeats you have sold all 
day. You seem like an intelligent boy, so I will give you 
a special task. 

“Here is money.” Moti noticed that the Brahman 
dropped it on the tray, so that their hands might not 
happen to touch. “I am going to trust you to take it and 
do as I say with it. Go boldly up to the seller of books and 
buy copies of them, then tear them up in front of the 
crowd, so that nobody can ever read them. For this special 
service you shall have more pay, for you will be able to 
spoil more books than the other boys.” 

Moti took the money, left his tray, and followed the 
other boys, who were already busy up and down the street. 
Moti kept on till he came to an open square, where a large 
crowd was gathered around a preacher and a book-seller. 

Some of the boys who had reached the square ahead of 
Moti were charging through the crowd, yelling and shout¬ 
ing, jostling the people so as to make them drop the books 
and leaflets, or even snatching them from their hands and 
tearing them up. Moti did none of these things. With the 
serious air of a purchaser, he walked directly up to the 
man who was selling books. Handing out a piece of money, 
he received a small copy of one of the gospels and several 
tracts. 

The other boys were laughing loudly and making all 
sorts of insulting speeches as they tore up the books they 


168 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


seized. Moti did not feel like doing that. But he was 
paid to destroy the book, and he must do it. 

Mounting on the steps of a temple, where he stood 
above the heads of the crowd, he began deliberately to 
tear the Gospel to pieces, scattering its pages over the 
heads of the crowd. The wind caught them and carried 
them far and wide, out to the edges of the crowd, where 
the people had not yet received any books. 

Suddenly a shrill cry broke on Mod’s ear. A little old 
woman came pushing through the crowd and up the 
temple steps toward him. 

“Grandmother!” gasped Moti, hastily dropping the 
remnants of the book he held. 

“Yes, grandmother!” cried the old woman, seizing him 
by the arm. “Here I go out in all this crowd into the 
bazaar to buy more sugar for the sweetmeats you are to 
sell tomorrow, and what do I find ? 

“Hearing the voice of a man speaking, I stop, and hear 
many good words. Then these evil boys come, making a 
tumult, and I can hear no more. But up here, in the eyes 
of all the world, I see my son’s son tearing to pieces one of 
the sacred books, such as the good people are selling. 

“O son of folly, what do you think to do? You may 
tear up their books, but all the time they are printing 
more. Can you destroy their printing presses too? Unless 
you do that it is vain to tear up paper.” 

Moti hung his head. Grandmother went on with in¬ 
creased vigor. 

“And what are you doing after all? See!” and she 
pointed out over the heads of the crowd to where the 
people on the outskirts were eagerly picking up the pieces 
of paper which Moti had scattered, piecing them to¬ 
gether and reading them. “See!” she repeated. “You 
have only spread the good words farther and caused more 
people to read them. They will be all the more eager now, 


MOTIFS MISTAKE 


169 


because they think that there must be something worth 
reading in them, or you would not take such trouble to 
keep them from doing it. Do you not see that you are 
helping these people to sell more ?” 

And it was true. Those who had read from the torn 
bits were already pressing forward, eager to buy a whole 
copy. The book-seller was thronged so that he could 
hardly handle his wares. 

“They are good words,” said grandmother solemnly; 
“words of comfort and help, words about the true God; 
I have heard them and I believe them. Go, now, and get 
your tray, O misguided child of mine! Come home with 
me and learn wisdom.” Grandmother descended the steps, 
dragging her grandson with her. The crowd made way 
respectfully for the old lady; many of them had listened to 
her little sermon, which she had uttered with no thought 
of any hearer but Moti, but which had rung out so clearly 
over their heads that the people around had turned to hear. 

All unconscious that she had been preaching to them, 
the old woman pushed through the midst, with a very 
downcast Moti following at her heels. 

The Brahmans were not to be seen when Moti reached 
the courtyard. His tray stood where he had left it, with its 
few remaining sweetmeats; he picked it up, laid down the 
rest of the money the Brahman had given him, and 
started off, very much ashamed of himself. 

Grandmother was waiting for him outside. She took 
pity on the boy when she saw his drooping head appear 
under the gateway. 

“Come home, Moti, with grandmother,” she said con¬ 
solingly. “I have a book there myself, and it is my fault 
that I have not told you so before. Now you shall learn 
to read it and hear of a Holy Man who loved boys like 
you. He was not proud like the Brahmans; when the boys 
and girls came to Him, He laid His hands on them and 


170 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


blessed them. You tried to injure Him today by harming 
His servants. But He did not let you do it; He used 
your hands to scatter His words farther, and make more 
people know them. Come with me, little grandson, and 
learn about Him.” 

And Moti went gladly. 


THE CHRISTIAN DISEASE 


“Yes,” said Engeltina, wiping her hand dry to offer 
it to me, “yes, it is all true; I have taken the new disease, 
and it is all the fault of Sarah, the Bible-woman.” 

“The new disease, Engeltina?” said I. “Don’t talk in rid¬ 
dles to a poor bewildered missionary, just back from a 
year’s vacation in America. You can’t expect me to know 
everything that has happened here in Ceylon while I have 
been away. What disease do you mean? I am sure you 
look healthy enough—and happy enough too.” 

“Happy? Yes!” said Engeltina. “I never knew what 
it was to be happy before. That is what comes of taking 
the disease. But I will tell you truly all about it. You 
used to know me when I came every week to do your 
washing. What kind of a woman would you have called 
me if you had happened to speak of me to your friends in 
America ?” 

The question was so blunt that I hardly knew how to 
answer it. Engeltina had been an excellent worker, but 
her sharp tongue was the terror of the neighborhood. She 
saw my hesitation and I was forced to answer. 

“You were industrious and faithful always, Engeltina,” 
I said. “My clothes came from your hands as white as 
snow. But I knew also that you had no manner of use 
for the things the missionaries taught, and that is why 
you and I did not know each other better.” 

My frankness pleased her, and she laid a hardened 
palm on my wrist as she replied, “That is true, but it is 
not nearly all. You knew that my neighbors dreaded me 
because I was always ready for a quarrel; that my hus¬ 
band was often afraid to come home after his day’s work 
because I was always scolding and nagging him. He would 
171 


172 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


go instead to buy arrack and drink it, then when he came 
home tipsy I would scold still more, until he nodded off to 
sleep and forgot to listen. My own little daughter, whom 
I loved more than any living thing, used to have that 
scared look in her eyes, just like a dog that expects a 
kick. It makes me hate myself to think of it.” 

The sunshine found some bright drops suddenly stand¬ 
ing on Engeltina’s lashes. My own throat somehow felt 
husky and I could not say anything. 

“I kept quiet enough before you/' she continued, “be¬ 
cause I was ashamed to have the white people know how 
mean I was. You never heard me talk about the Jesus 
doctrine, but all my neighbors knew what I thought of it. 

“ "Ho/ I used to say, 'another poor, weak creature has 
taken the Christian disease! First one, then another, and 
all of them fools! Here are our gods, which our fathers 
have worshiped for generations; here are their temples, 
rich and beautiful, and their images that all of us can see. 
And here comes along a foreigner with a white face and 
a little book, and talks about a man who died before any 
of us were born, and whom nobody living has ever seen. 

“ ‘Then somebody begins to cry, and say, “Oh, oh, I 
have been all wrong, and my fathers before me! See, I 
leave my faith and believe the Jesus doctrine!” Then the 
foreign teacher sprinkles a little water on him and he is 
called a Christian. Next his neighbor catches the disease, 
then it runs down a whole street, just like smallpox; at 
last a whole village comes, asking to have the water 
sprinkled on them. 

“ ‘It is a fearful disease, but it will never take me. 
It makes people weak and foolish. Last week one of my 
neighbors, who used to quarrel with us all, said she had 
taken this Christian disease. I went up and shook my fists 
in her face, but she never moved. I called her all the bad 
names I knew, and she never opened her mouth to call me 


THE CHRISTIAN DISEASE 


173 


one back. She just sat there like an idiot and let me abuse 
her. That is what the disease does to people. Bah, Engeb 
tina will never take such a disease as that!’ Yes, dear 
lady, that was how I used to talk.” 

Engeltina paused for breath. The tale had been quite 
startling while she was telling it, for she actually shook 
her fists at me, acting out the whole story; but I could see 
that she was quite unconscious of having done so. Even 
when she repeated her own abusive words her voice had 
a softer tone than formerly. 

“But what changed your mind ?” I ventured to ask. 

“Oh, it was that Bible-woman, Sarah, and her little 
book!” said Engeltina. “When she first came and wanted 
to read out of it to me I drove her away with many angry 
words. 

“ ‘You/ I said, ‘you that I have known from childhood, 
who played with me as a little puny girl, so frail that I 
could pick you up and put you on my back—you come 
here now and try to teach me! I will show you that En¬ 
geltina is still stronger than you are. You cannot infect 
me with your poisonous talk. Go away with your Chris¬ 
tian disease; all the town may take it out of your little 
book, but not Engeltina. Begone, I say!' 

“She is just a frail little body yet, is Sarah, and I am 
big and strong. She went without a word; and then all 
of a sudden I felt ashamed to have threatened such a little 
mite of a thing. I was almost sorry, especially when I 
thought how she had actually smiled at me as she went 
out of the compound. 

“I did not see her again for a week. Then one day she 
walked quietly into the compound when I was busy cutting 
up fish to dry. She did not speak to me and I was too 
much ashamed to speak a word to her. 

“She sat down on a sunny bench beside the wall and 
took out her little book. At the sight of it my anger rose 


174 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


up again. I wanted to snatch the book and fling it over 
the wall. I don’t know why I let her sit there, unless it 
was because she was so very little and thin; I was just 
ashamed to touch her. 

“Presently she began to read aloud. I would have put 
my fingers in my ears, but my hands were covered with 
fish scales. I tried not to listen. But it was a story she 
was reading and I soon listened in spite of myself. It was 
about some men in a boat, who got so many fishes all at 
once that their net broke. I wondered how long it took 
their wives to dry all those fish. 

“She read other stories, too, about those same fisher¬ 
men. And always there was the man called Jesus with 
them, and always He was doing something to help them. 
I couldn’t help wishing He would help my man to catch 
more fish. 

“She went away before long, without saying a word to 
me. It was just as if she hadn’t seen me there at all. I was 
angry, and yet I wished she would come back and read 
some more stories to me. 

“She did come, always just as quiet as a little shadow 
slipping in the gate. Every week she read more of those 
stories to me, and every story had Jesus in it. One day 
when she came my dear little girl had been sick, and in 
spite of me the tears ran down my ...face when she read 
how Jesus came and brought a man’s little daughter back 
to life, after all the mourners had been wailing over her. 

“The stories began to grow sadder, and yet I didn’t want 
them to stop. When they told how bad men took the good 
Jesus and beat Him and spit on Him I could not keep still 
any longer. 

“ ‘O Sarah,’ I cried, ‘why didn’t He strike them back ? 
Why didn’t He fight?’ She never answered me, but just 
kept on reading. When it came to where they put Him 
on the cross and He prayed, 'Forgive them,’ I thought 


THE CHRISTIAN DISEASE 


175 


my heart would break. I sat down and cried like a baby. 

“Next Sunday I went to church to hear more about 
Him. That is how I took the Christian disease, and no¬ 
body in our village took it harder. About two months ago 
my little daughter and I were baptized, though my mother 
and all my relatives were very much opposed to it. They 
think I am bewitched. Some day, maybe, Sarah will get 
them to listen too. 

“I have made friends with all my neighbors, and we do 
not quarrel any more. Sometimes I forget and begin to 
get angry, but then I stop at once and say 'Pardon!’ and 
we are at peace again. I am praying, and my friends are 
praying with me, that my husband may stop drinking 
arrack and take the Christian disease too. Won’t you help 
us pray for him, dear lady?” 

“Indeed I will, Engeltina!” I replied heartily. 


THE EARS OF HIS ARMY 


“Uncle John,” said Harold, looking up from the news¬ 
paper he was laboriously trying to read, “where is there a 
country called Opium ?” 

“Opium, my dear boy? What do you mean? Here, 
let me see that paper.” 

Harold handed the paper to his uncle, pointing to a 
headline which read, “China’s War Against Opium at 
an End.” 

“Oh, Harold,” said Mabel, peeping over Uncle John’s 
shoulder, “don’t you know any better than that? Opium 
isn’t a country at all. It’s something people smojke, and it 
makes them crazy.” 

“Ho!” said Harold scornfully. “How can anybody fight 
smoke? That’s just like a girl. You must have been read¬ 
ing that out of the Chinese fairy tales Uncle John brought 
you. Tell us what it really is, uncle.” 

“Mabel is right,” said Uncle John. “Opium is a power¬ 
ful drug, extracted from a beautiful flower—the poppy.” 

“A flower!” groaned Harold. “That’s worse yet. Are 
they fighting flowers too ?” 

“Listen quietly, Harold,” said his mother from her 
chair by the window. “Uncle John will tell you all about 
it if you give him a chance.” 

Harold and Mabel settled themselves expectantly on 
either side of Uncle John, prepared to listen. This uncle, 
who had been a missionary doctor in China and was soon 
going back again, had so many interesting stories to tell 
that they were usually silent the moment he opened his 
lips, expecting to hear some new tale of wonder. 

“A great many years ago,” began Uncle John, “the 
Chinese knew the art of making opium from the poppy, 
176 


THE EARS OF HIS ARMY 


177 


and that its use as a medicine would quiet pain. It was not 
until the eighteenth century, however, that the habit of 
smoking it began to spread among the Chinese. 

“At first the opium was imported from Burma and 
India; but then the Chinese began to grow it themselves. 
Whole fields that once produced grain were given over 
to the planting of poppies, even though many people in 
China w r ere starving every year for lack of food. 

“The smoking of opium does great harm to the people 
who use it. It is a habit that consumes a great deal of time, 
and the longer people smoke it the more they crave it, so 
that they will often spend most of the day or night dream¬ 
ing over their pipes. They lose all energy and desire for 
work; their appetite for wholesome food fails, their flesh 
wastes away, and they become useless and helpless. If they 
do not get the chance each day to take their accustomed 
smoke they suffer intense agony; if deprived of it for 
some days they become frantic. That is what Mabel was 
thinking of, I suppose, when she said it made them 
crazy. 

“Besides, it is a costly habit. Men will sell all that they 
have, make beggars of their families, even sell their chil¬ 
dren into slavery for a chance to get opium. They seem to 
lose all conscience and common sense in the grip of that 
dreadful habit.” 

“It’s as bad as drink, isn’t it?” said Mabel. “Didn’t 
anybody try to put a stop to it ?” 

“Yes,” said Uncle John, “many rulers of China made 
laws to restrain the habit, but it grew and grew, until it 
was estimated that forty million people, or about one-tenth 
of the whole population of China were using the drug. 

“Then a determined old lady, the Empress Dowager of 
China, one of the greatest rulers China has ever had, de¬ 
cided that this great evil must cease. Although the Chinese 
Government got considerable revenue from it, she deter- 


178 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


mined to blot out the habit once for all. So she made an 
edict that for the next ten years the land given up to the 
raising of poppies should be decreased one-tenth each year 
and planted in useful foodstuffs, until no more poppies 
were raised. All government officials under sixty years of 
age who used it were compelled to give it up, and none who 
did not use it were allowed to begin.” 

“Did they obey her ?” asked Harold. 

“Not everybody, and not right away,” said Uncle John. 
“In one province some of the farmers, seeing that others 
had stopped planting poppies, thought there would be a 
greater demand, and so they planted large fields of them. 
The viceroy sent men to dig them up. Next year the 
farmers planted more and he destroyed them again. The 
third year, when they tried it, the viceroy said, ‘This is 
not mere disobedience, it is rebellion!’ and he sent men 
who dug graves in the poppy fields, made the farmers 
kneel on the edge of their graves, cut off their heads, and 
buried them right there among their poppies. After that 
people did not try to break the law.” 

“Have they finished getting rid of the poppies?” asked 
Harold. “Oh, now I see what the paper means! That was 
the war against opium, and now it is ended.” 

“Yes,” said their uncle, “if other nations do not try to 
bring it in to them again. It was a brave fight against a 
dreadful habit, and only a brave people could have made it. 

“I had a funny experience myself when I was in China 
with an army that used opium,” he added. The children 
edged up closer. 

“Near my mission station,” he went on, “there was a 
large post of the Chinese army, commanded by a hot- 
tempered but well-meaning old general who was a great 
friend of mine. One day he sent word to me, asking if I 
would come over to see him on a matter of business. When 
I arrived I found him evidently much disturbed. 


THE EARS OF HIS ARMY 


179 


“ ‘Doctor/ he said, as soon as the indispensable courte¬ 
sies of a Chinese visit had been disposed of, ‘a lot of my 
men have got hold of some opium, and they are getting 
to be so worthless that I can’t do anything with them. I 
have ordered all pipes to be broken, but they always get 
new ones; and I am afraid to take the opium from them 
all at once, or I shall have a lot of madmen on my hands. 

“ ‘Will you take them over to the hospital and cure them 
for me? I have heard that your treatment works wonder¬ 
ful cures. After that I’ll keep the stuff away from them if 
I have to cut their heads off to do it.’ 

“He looked so fierce that I thought he would actually 
cut somebody’s head off, and I didn’t want it to be mine. 
So I said, “But, general, our hospital will not hold a whole 
army at once, or even a small part of one.’ 

“ ‘I’ll send them to you in small groups,” he said, ‘the 
worst ones first.’ 

“So next day he came over himself with forty of his 
men under guard. 

“ ‘Here they are!’ he said. ‘I’ve told them to do as you 
say, or I’ll have their ears cut off!’ 

“They were not a cheerful-looking lot, and they were 
less so the next day, when they began to miss their pipes. 
I knew what was coming, so we locked them all in one of 
the wards where there were iron bars across the windows. 

“You never heard such a frightful racket as those poor 
fellows made when the craving for the drug really got 
them. Such howls and threats, such prayers and curses 
I never heard in my life; but I dared not let them out till 
the craving was conquered. The third night I went to bed 
and slept in spite of the noise, for I was tired out. 

“Near morning I got awake with a confused sense of 
missing something. The hospital was quiet as the grave. 
A few minutes later an attendant came to me in great ex¬ 
citement. 


180 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“ ‘Doctor/ he said, ‘all those soldiers are gone !’ 

“ ‘Gone !’ I said. ‘How can that be ?’ 

“ ‘They went wild/ he said. ‘They climbed up and 
crawled through the transoms, and threatened to kill us 
all if we stopped them. Then they all ran off, and nobody 
knows where they are/ 

“I got up and dressed, looking for more excitement, and 
it soon came. An orderly from the post came in a terrible 
hurry about an hour later. 

“ ‘O doctor/ he said, shivering as if he had ague, ‘do 
come over quickly! The men have come back and the 
general is in an awful rage. He is cutting off all their 
ears.’ 

“It didn’t take me long to get to the post. There I found 
the old general, red as a turkey cock, with sword in hand, 
slashing away at the men like a maniac. His own private 
secretary had been the first man he attacked. Fortunately 
he was so enraged that his hand was not very steady, and 
he had only succeeded in slashing bits from some of 
their ears; but I was mortally afraid he would take more 
than the ears off some poor fellow if he didn’t stop. 

“ ‘General/ I cried out as soon as I was within hearing 
distance, ‘what in the world are you doing ?’ 

“He was quite out of breath, for he had been dancing 
about and abusing the men with all the strength of his 
lungs. When I hailed him he kept on dancing, but stopped 
slashing at the ears. 

“ ‘I am doing just what I said I would/ he panted. ‘It 
is only right. What use are a soldier’s ears if not to hear 
and obey orders ? A soldier who will not obey orders may 
as well have his ears cut off, for they are of no use to him. 
Besides, I told them I would do it, and I always keep my 
word.’ 

“I saw it was useless to argue with him, but I was 
bound to save the rest of the ears if I could. So I stood 


THE EARS OF HIS ARMY 


181 


aside respectfully and said with sorrow in my voice, ‘Alas! 
What will the President of the United States say when 
he hears of this ?’ 

“The general started as if he had been stung. If there 
was one thing he was anxious for, it was that his people 
should have the good opinion of Americans, of whom he 
professed to think very highly. Many an evening he had 
discussed American politics with me, after his own fash¬ 
ion, over a cup of tea. 

“ ‘He thinks/ I went on, still more sadly, ‘that China 
is a great and progressive nation; that her army is well 
disciplined, her generals masters of their men, and using 
only the modern ways of dealing with them. An American 
general would never mutilate his men with his own hand, 
no matter what they did. He might court-martial them, 
and order them to be imprisoned or even shot, but he 
would never dream of cutting their ears off. I fear the 
whole Chinese army will lose face if our President hears 
that a great general could not make his men obey him 
without chopping off their ears/ 

“The old man grew as white as he had been red. There 
is nothing that so quickly appeals to the Chinese mind as 
the fear of ‘losing face/ or being discredited and shamed. 

“ ‘But I told them- * he began uncertainly. 

“ ‘Let me talk to them/ I put in hastily. ‘Put your sword 
away, general, and I will promise not to tell the President 
if you will not cut off any more ears/ 

“Then, going over to the men, now thoroughly sobered 
and scared, I talked to them quietly, assuring them that 
the worst of their treatment was over, and that in a few 
more days, if they bore their discomfort bravely, as sol¬ 
diers ought to, they would be cured. Meantime I would 
fix up their poor ears if they would come back and do as 
I said. Otherwise I would leave them all to the tender 
mercies of the old general. 



182 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Before that gentleman’s amazed eyes his forty men 
were soon marching back with me as quiet as lambs. They 
were all cured, and later the general sent other detach¬ 
ments for the same purpose. He was a better friend of 
mine than ever, and was never weary of talking about the 
wonderful wisdom of Americans, particularly American 
doctors.” 

“Wish I could have seen him hopping around with his 
sword,” said Harold. “But I’m glad you made him treat 
his men better after that.” 


THE RISING OF THE STAR 


“Ah, I don’t keer for the likes o’ her! She ain’t none 
of us. She’s just a woman as was fotched on here by 
somebody to see how we-uns live, an’ tell stories about 
us to people when she gits back home. They’s a lot 
o’ curious people in this here world. Don’t you-all 
’member that feller as come up here on hossback onct? 
That one as said he were writin’ a book, an’ he wanted 
somethin’ he called ‘local color’?” 

“I reckon I do,” giggled Sam. “An’ paw told him 
the color he was likely to git was black an’ blue, if 
he come nosin’ aroun’ in other folkses’ business.” 

“But this here lady ain’t like him,” said Mandy, 
unawed by the criticisms of her brothers. “You, Tom 
an’ Sam, you’se just afeard she’ll fin’ out what a little 
bit we knows about everythin’.” 

“ ’Tain’t our fault if we don’t know nothin’,” said 
Tom, husking corn with great energy. “If that there 
schoolhouse over on Little Pine hadn’t ’a burned 
down, an’ nobody never corned to build a new one, 
we-all would ’a learned as well as anybody. We ain’t 
no dumber than all the folks aroun’ here, anyways,” 
he added defensively. 

“I just loves to hear her talk,” said Mandy, busily 
shelling beans. “She sure does use the purtiest lang- 
wige. I’d give anythin’ to talk like she does.” 

“Shucks, that ain’t nothin’!” said Sam. “That’s just 
put on. But she is rode on steam engines, an’ saw big 
cities; I likes to hear her tell about them there.” 

“How do you-all know what she talks about?” said 
Mandy. “Las’ night you-all went tearin’ off to bed 
like a couple o’ wild sheep. Maw sent me off before I 
183 


184 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


was ready; I did want to hear her tell about them 
there girls she knows, what goes to school an’ learns 
readin’ an’ writin’ an’ all sich. I’d give the ears off’n 
my head to go to school like that.” 

“Maybe we-all did go up the loft,” said Sam, “but 
there’s a mighty good hole there to listen at. Yes, 
you-all did it, too,” he said, shaking an accusing finger 
at Tom, who grinned and looked sheepish. 

“ ’Twas when she was tellin’ about them there airy- 
planes I got to listenin’,” he confessed. “I do think 
it’s right smart of a lie, but I likes to hear it anyway.” 

“Let’s we-all ask to sit up tonight,” said Mandy 
eagerly. “If maw sees you boys wants to listen she 
won’t sen’ me off to bed so powerful early.” 

The late fall evening darkened over the top of Great 
Pine Mountain, and the day’s chores were all done. 
The children’s fingers had been busy all day, and they 
were glad to gather quietly around the fire and listen 
to what the guest from the outside world had to say. 

“There is going to be frost tonight, I am sure,” said 
Mrs. Lang, their visitor, rubbing her hands before 
the cheery blaze. “It feels like Christmas coming; 
doesn’t it, Mandy?” 

“Chris’mus!” said Mandy, forgetting her shyness. 
“Oh, no; I hopes it’s a long time yet till Chris’-mus 
comes.” 

“Why, Mandy, what do you mean? I thought all 
boys and girls loved Christmas and were glad to see 
it come,” said Mrs. Lang in astonishment. 

“Oh, no, lady; not up here on Great Pine!” declared 
Mandy with a shudder. 

“What does Christmas mean to you, Mandy, dear?” 
asked Mrs. Lang gently. Mandy allowed herself to be 
drawn a little nearer. 


THE RISING OF THE STAR 


185 


“Oh, it’s an awful time!” she replied in a hushed 
voice. “The men all gits together, an’ gits lots an’ lots 
o’ whiskey from the stills-” 

“Sh-h-h!” came a warning whisper from Tom. 

“Well, I ain’t tellin’ where none on ’em is,” Mandy 
answered to the hiss. “Everybody knows as there is 
stills in these here mountains, where whiskey gets 
made. An’ they drinks an’ drinks,” she went on, turn¬ 
ing to the lady again; “an’ goes out an’ shoots, an’ 
sometimes somebody gets killed. Us children, an’ the 
women folks, dassent stir out o’ the house. Chris’mus! 
Why, lady, if somebody come an’ telled us there’d 
never be no more Chris’mus I reckon I’d be so glad 
I’d dance an’ sing!” 

“Mandy,” said the tired voice of her sad-faced moth¬ 
er from the other side of the fireplace, “Chris’-mus ain’t 
like that everywheres. I use’ to hear about it when I 
was a girl. You ask the lady, won’t she please tell 
you-all about her kind o’ Chris’mus?” 

It took no urging. The children hung spellbound 
on Mrs. Lang’s tales of the great stores hung with 
holly and mistletoe, and the counters loaded with 
beautiful things; of the homes where happy children 
decked Christmas trees and hung stockings; of the 
churches where the fir and the pine were garlanded, 
and the children sang carols. 

“I guess that’s a city Chris’mus,” said Mandy, shak¬ 
ing her wise little head solemnly. “It ain’t no moun¬ 
tain Chris’mus anyways!” 

Then, like a bolt out of a clear sky, came an un¬ 
looked-for question from Sam, who had not opened 
his mouth before. 

“What’s it all about, anyways?” he demanded. 

Mrs. Lang drew a deep breath. Suddenly she realized 



186 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


that the Star of Bethlehem had never risen on Great 
Pine Mountain. These children had not the slightest 
idea what Christmas was about. 

“Why, it is Christ-mas, you know,” she explained. 
“The day of Christ—His birthday.” 

“Christ? Who’s He?” That was Sam again. 

The lady felt more and more puzzled. How could 
she explain it all? 

“He is the Saviour,” she said. “He came from 
heaven to earth, and was born a little baby on the first 
Christmas, to save everybody from their sins.” 

“What sins?” 

“Bad things—wrong things, like stealing and kill¬ 
ing-” 

“An’ shootin’, an’ tellin’ lies, an’ sich,” broke in the 
eager Mandy. “We done heard onct about George 
Washin’ton, an’ how he never tol’ a lie. Is Christ like 
him?” 

“Yes, like him, and a great deal better,” said Mrs. 
Lang. “Christ never did anything that was wrong. 
He came to show people how to do what was right 
and good always.” 

“ ’Pears to me,” said another voice, “I done heard 
about Him onct when I was little.” Tom had actually 
been drawn into the conversation. “Maw,” he went 
on, “didn’t a man come here one time, long ago, what 
tol’ about Him? Wasn’t His mother’s name Mary, 
like yourn?” 

The mother was rocking herself back and forth, 
crying softly. 

“Oh, yes, Tommy boy!” she answered. “You done 
heard on Him when you was little, an’ I knowed about 
Him, long time ago. But all on us has forgotten Him 
all these years, up here on Great Pine. I reckon that’s 



THE RISING OF THE STAR 


187 


why we-all has such hard times, an’ the whiskey makes 
the men so crazy. Go on, lady dear, tell us more about 
Him.” 

The story of the angels and the shepherds fell on 
eagerly listening ears. Then the Wise Men and the 
star; and here a new voice, gruff and harsh, joined in. 

“If I’d ’a been there Fd ’a shot that there ol’ 
king!” It was the children’s father; he had come in 
so softly that none of them had known he was there. 

“We can still help to destroy the things that fight 
against the Christ-child,” said Mrs. Lang quietly. 
“Everything that hurts people and makes them do 
wdcked things is an enemy of His for us to fight 
against.” 

“Whisky, an’ shootin’, an’ gamblin’,” commented 
Mandy, catching the point immediately, “an’ lyin’, an’ 
stealin’, an’-” 

“Shut up, Mandy, an’ let the lady go on!” said Sam. 
“An’ what did they do when they foun’ the ol’ king 
was just foolin’?” 

So the story was told to its end—the Christmas 
story, never heard before in that lonely cabin on the 
mountains. 

“You can read, can’t you, Mrs. Luckett?” asked Mrs. 
Lang, turning to her hostess. 

“Not very good; but my man, there, he use’ to be 
a fine reader,” said the woman, pointing to her hus¬ 
band. 

“I must leave you tomorrow,” began the lady, only 
to be interrupted by a cry from Mandy. 

“Oh, don’t go back! We-all needs you to stay here, 
an’ tell us things we don’t know.” 

“I must go, dear Mandy,” repeated Mrs. Lang; “but 
if your father will read it to you sometimes I will 



188 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


leave a little book with you which will give you all 
the story I have been telling you, and many more 
about this same dear Christ. Will you, Mr. Luckett?” 

The big man’s sun-browned hand closed awkwardly 
over the little Testament. "I’ll try,” he said, much 
embarrassed. 

“That there was a Bible you give him, wasn’t it?” 
whispered his wife. “We’ll sure coax him to read it to 
us.” 

And little Mandy came and put her arms around the 
visitor’s neck. “I’m goin’ to watch for the brightest 
star I can fin’ when Chris’mus comes,” she declared, 
“an’ make believe as it’s the star them there Wise 
Men saw. I won’t be so much afeard o’ Chris’mus 
now, even if we can’t have a city one.” 

Mrs. Lang kissed her, resolving in her heart that a 
box should come up Great Pine a little later, which 
would bring at least a bit of a “city Christmas” to this 
bare little cabin. But she knew that a more powerful 
spell was at work, through the little book clasped in 
the hardened hand of the gaunt mountaineer; and her 
heart was glad, for she knew that at last the Star had 
risen on Great Pine. 


THE DAY THEY GAVE TO GOD 


“But it is not possible!’' said Deacon Kim. 

“Our people could never do it!” declared Mr. Song. 

“I know it is asking a great deal of you,” said 
Doctor Gray, the visiting missionary, “but I did hope 
you could see your way to support your own preacher. 
You don’t realize what it would mean to you to have 
a pastor, one of your own Korean men who has been 
trained for the ministry, living right here among you, 
preaching to you every week and visiting in your 
homes, instead of having church service only once in 
several weeks.” 

“We do know,” said Deacon Kim, “that it would be 
a wonderful thing for us. But it is not possible. Our 
people are too poor. They could never raise fifteen 
yen a month.” 

There was a stir in the far corner where the women 
sat. 

“And who said we could not?” said the cracked 
voice of old Grandma Ko. 

“And why couldn’t we try?” inquired Mrs. Cho, 
respectfully but firmly. 

Doctor Gray turned to their corner. 

“May we hear our sisters speak?” he said. “What 
have they to suggest?” 

It was Chanie Song, the bright, pretty daughter of 
Mr. Song, who came forward. She had been away 
to study at the mission school and could read and 
write, to the admiration of the whole village. 

“Preacher and fathers,” she said with the prettiest 
little bow, “we have been thinking of what you said, 

189 


190 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


back there in the corner. We think you said this could 
not be done, because you were thinking of us. You 
did not want to promise to pay out money that might 
make the women and children suffer want. But we 
think we would not need to suffer if everybody would 
help. Suppose there would be a great festival day, like 
a visit from a famous general or king. What would 
we do? We would all put away our work and go out 
to see him, and we would say, ‘I can do without the 
money I would have earned that day, for it was worth 
more to see the great man.’ And if your child were 
to graduate from the mission school you would leave 
all your work and go two-three days’ journey to see 
the exercises, as my father did for me.” Her eyes 
dwelt lovingly on her father’s face, and he smiled back 
at her proudly. 

“So, then,” went on Chanie, “we do not starve, even 
if we do not work every day. Suppose then* were 
twelve such days in every year; would any of us 
starve to death?” 

“No-o,” came rather reluctantly from the fathers. 

“Well, then,” said Chanie, “we could afford to give 
one day a month, on which all the time was given to 
God, and all the money we earned would be for the 
church. Could we not?” 

“Yes!” said Grandma Ko as loudly as she could. 

“Even if each man gave a day a month, Chanie,” 
said Deacon Kim kindly, “the earnings of them all 
would not be fifteen yen.” 

“But I do not mean just the men!” said Chanie. “We 
will all work to earn something that day, even the 
little children. We have counted, and there are one 
hundred and seventy-four men, women and children 
who belong to this church and Sunday school. Surely, 
if each gave a day’s work we could raise fifteen yen!” 


THE DAY THEY GAVE TO GOD 191 

“I will make straw shoes!” cried Grandma Ko 
eagerly. “I can do that well.” 

“And I will dye cloth,” said Mrs. Cho. “I can get 
all of that work I can do from the weavers here in the 
town.” 

“I can pull weeds,” lisped Deacon Kim’s youngest 
child, manly little Chun, standing up very straight. 

There was no more objecting after that. One after 
another came forward, pledging a day of time that 
month for God. Some told what they expected to do; 
others said they would do anything they could find to 
do, or help those who had more work than they could 
do alone. Several women offered to help Mrs. Cho, be¬ 
cause the demand for the dyeing of cloth was always 
so large. 

“Chanie is a wonderful girl,” said more than one 
neighbor to proud Mr. Song as they passed out of the 
church that night. “She has more ideas, and better 
ones, than all the rest of us put together.” 

“That is because of the mission school teaching,” 
said her delighted father. 

The day was set for the time when Chanie’s plan 
should first be tried. 

“What are you going to do, Chanie?” asked Mrs. 
Cho, stopping on her way to the weaver’s. 

Chanie pointed to a heap of white linen, yards and 
yards of it, lying on the floor like a great snow drift. 

“Mother and I are going to make suits of this,” she 
said. Men in Korea, if they are of any consequence 
at all, love to be dressed always in the whitest and 
stiffest of linen suits. The skillful fingers of Mrs. Song 
and her daughter would fashion suits that a prince 
would be glad to purchase. 


192 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Mrs. Wun will have the handling of them some 
day/’ laughed Mrs. Cho. “She is going to wash suits 
and iron them.” 

“I am helping, too,” spoke up little Mokie Song from 
the floor at her sister’s feet. “Chanie said I could pull 
basting threads. Chanie sews so nice; she makes all 
my clothes. She learned to do it at the school.” 

“Here comes your brother, Ke,” said Mrs. Cho. “I 
see he has been up the mountain for dried grass.” 

Ke Song came clattering along the street with a 
great bundle of dried grass on his head; he was going 
to sell it for fuel. 

“Father has gone for a load of firewood,” he said. 
“He can sell all he can haul. I can only make a few 
trips for grass today because I have errands to run 
for the grocer; he said he would pay me five sen, 
because he will have some long trips for me to take 
with a heavy basket.” (A sen is equal to about one 
cent in our money; a yen is a hundred sen, or a dollar. 
Wages are very low in Korea, so that fifteen yen 
means far more there than fifteen dollars with us.) 

“Five sen is good wages for a boy,” said Mrs. Cho, 
“and you have your grass to sell besides. But I have 
stopped too long to chatter; the cloth will be waiting 
for me.” And she hurried on. 

“I met little Chun Kim,” said Ke laughing, “with a 
basket of weeds nearly as big as himself. He is helping 
his father cultivate grain, and Deacon Kim is as proud 
as he can be to see how the little fellow works. Grand¬ 
ma Ko is busy too; she called out to me to tell you 
that she had gotten up early, and had one pair of shoes 
almost done.” 

“They will do it,” said Chanie as her busy fingers 
flew. “They will all do it, and we shall earn the 
money.” 


THE DAY THEY GAVE TO GOD 


193 


There was a meeting in the church the next evening, 
and every man, woman and child who attended the 
little church had brought or sent an offering. When 
Mr. Song, the treasurer, had counted the money, with 
the help of the other church officers, everyone sat 
breathless to hear the result. Mr. Song had to clear his 
throat several times before he could speak. 

“Dear friends,” he said at last, “we have given our 
day to God, and He has blessed it. Instead of fifteen 
yen, which we thought we could not raise, we have 
here on the table eighteen yen; and, best of all, we 
have the promise of every one of us to give a day to 
God each month, as long as He gives us health and 
strength.” 

And Chanie, leaning forward with shining eyes, 
squeezed her mother’s hand very tight, and whispered, 
“I knew we could do it.” 


THE CROCODILE THAT WENT HUNGRY 

“What in the world are those girls doing?” asked 
Miss Brown, head teacher of the Mission School for 
Girls in Liberia, of her assistant, Mammy Sue, the 
portly colored matron. 

“Oh, Miss Brown, dem girls is jus’ wil’ to go in de 
ribber!” declared Mammy Sue, shaking her head por¬ 
tentously. “Dey boun’ to go, eben when I tell 'em dey 
get drownded.” 

“Poor children!” laughed Miss Brown, fanning her¬ 
self with her hat. “I don’t blame them for wanting to 
get into the water. I would like to be there myself and 
try to forget this blistering heat.” 

“Yes’m, Miss Brown, dat’s true; but you ain’t been 
here so bery long, an’ you-all don’t know how danger¬ 
ous it is in dat ribber. Las’ year, when de men was 
workin’ on de new buildin’, seben ob ’em done got 
drownded at once. Yes’m! And ebery year somebody 
gets drownded in it. Dese here people say de ribber-god 
has to hab a sacrifice ebery year. ’Course I don’t pay 
no ’tention to dat. I is from de States” (Mammy Sue 
never lets anybody forget that) “an I knows dere ain’t 
no such foolishness. But dese here ignorant Africa 
niggers believes all sorts ob t’ings.” 

“Why isn’t there a bridge over the river, so we don’t 
have to cross in those miserable little canoes?” 
inquired Miss Brown, remembering sundry uncom¬ 
fortable and risky voyages. 

“Don’t know, ma’am, unless it costs too much 
money to make one. De people back in de States would 
t’ink it took right smart ob money, I reckon, to put a 
bridge ober dis crazy little ribber, what runs away 
194 


THE CROCODILE THAT WENT HUNGRY 195 

tossin’ its head like a wil’ hoss when de rains makes it 
full.” 

Miss Brown glanced out at the river, dancing over 
its rocks, with many swirls and eddies, and thought 
how well Mammy Sue’s comparison described the toss 
of white foam over the boulders. Concern for the girls 
began to invade her mind. 

“Have they gone down to the river to bathe?” she 
inquired, beginning to tie on her hat. 

“Bless you, honey, dey is all gone down dere long 
ago. I jus’ couldn’t keep dem away nohow. I tol’ ’em 
crocodile get dem, but dey jus’ laugh, an’ go runnin’ 
down de bank like a passel ob ducks.” 

Miss Brown had already started down the steep 
bank toward the river, when the shrieks of delight 
from the girls playing in the water became howls of 
terror. Out of the river came some dozens of shiny 
black forms, all screaming so loudly that the words 
they were shouting could not be heard. And down in 
the river a scaly back and ugly long snout appeared, 
and around it a red stain could be seen spreading on 
the water. 

“Crocodile! Crocodile!” The cries became clear at 
last. 

“They are dragging something!” exclaimed Miss 
Brown in horror. “Somebody has been bitten!” 

By the time she reached the children the crocodile 
had disappeared again. The black huddle of shivering 
little girls separated to let her through. 

“Oh, Miss Brown,” sobbed the children, “he done 
bit Rhoda’s leg off!” 

“It was de ol’ ribber-god,” said one. “He boun’ to 
get somebody ebery year. Oh, Miss Brown, do get a 
roll ob cloth or a knife or somet’ing an' t’row it in de 
ribber, so de ribber-god get no mo’ ob us.” 


196 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Hush, you silly children!” said Miss Brown with 
authority. “Here you have been taken, some of you 
several years ago, from your homes in the bush, and 
taught book” (the African name for schooling) “and 
given Christian names instead of your heathen ones, 
and as soon as a crocodile comes along you want to 
sacrifice to the river-god. I’m ashamed of you.” 

While she spoke the teacher had gathered up little 
Rhoda in her arms, regardless of the bleeding leg, and 
was carrying her swiftly up the hill to the school. A 
very subdued flock of girls followed her, carrying their 
clothes, on which they secretly wiped their eyes, and 
perhaps also their broad, flat noses. They were snif¬ 
fling softly now; Rhoda was the quietest of the group. 
She had not screamed at all after the first shock. 

“Is her leg bit off?” queried Mammy Sue in awe. 

“Not a mite of it,” answered Miss Brown cheerfully, 
seeing Rhoda’s wide, horror-filled eyes fixed on her 
face. “The old crocodile was hungry, and he thought 
Rhoda looked plump and tender; but he’ll have to go 
hungry today, for we can’t spare him even one little 
toe of our Rhoda. Can we, honey?” she asked ten¬ 
derly. A wan smile crossed Rhoda’s lips. 

“Now, Mammy Sue, bring me some hot water, and 
I’ll get my medicine case and some bandages, and 
we’ll have Rhoda comfortable in no time. All you 
girls go and dress, and then get your sewing and sit 
on the veranda with it. You’ve had enough excite¬ 
ment for one day.” 

The wound made by the crocodile’s teeth was long 
and jagged, but no bones were broken. Miss Brown 
quickly disinfected and bound it up, and put Rhoda to 
bed to sleep away her fright. 

“Dere’s boun’ to be trouble ober dis, Miss Brown,” 
said Mammy Sue gloomily as the teacher put away 


THE CROCODILE THAT WENT HUNGRY 


197 


her remedies. “Dose people ob Rhoda’s ain’t goin’ 
to stay at home when dey hears about dis. You can 
reckon on dat.” 

“How will they hear about it, Mammy Sue?” asked 
Miss Brown. “Her village, she told me, is far up in the 
bush, and I am sure there is no telephone or telegraph 
out here.” 

“Neber you min’, honey,” said Mammy Sue impres¬ 
sively. “You see dem people from de village down by 
de ribber? Dey was standin’ aroun’ watchin’ from de 
time de girls began to scream. An’ you listen to dat 1” 

The irregular tapping of a native drum was sound¬ 
ing from the village at the foot of the hill. It was a 
common sound, and Miss Brown had hardly noticed 
it. Now it caught her ear, and she realized that it was 
being tapped in peculiar groups of sounds, like a tele¬ 
graphic code. 

“Dey sends all de news miles an’ miles dat way,” 
said Mammy Sue. “You can jus’ look out for Rhoda’s 
people along here about dis evenin’.” 

Sure enough, only a few hours had passed when a 
motley band of native Africans could be seen climbing 
the hill to the schoolhouse. Arriving at the top, they 
began to clamor for the teacher in a mixture of native 
dialect and that sort of “pidgin English”—learned 
originally from traders—which the people of Liberia 
fondly imagine to be good American. 

“You be bad woman for true-true. You let dem 
crocodile eat our chil’; you put spell on our children. 
We go tell ebery town; dey not sen’ you children here 
no mo’. Plenty girls go home. Plenty people come 
here, tear down ol’ school, t’row you in ribber; croco¬ 
dile eat you.” 

Miss Brown stood her ground bravely. Several 
times she tried to speak, but the crowd was not ready 


198 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


to listen. The girls peeped out of the doors and win¬ 
dows with ashy faces; the people from the village at 
the foot of the hill gathered near, enjoying the scene. 

At last the noisy throats grew hoarse and the crowd 
became quiet. Then Miss Brown said, “Now, let one 
person speak at a time, and tell me what you are mak¬ 
ing all this noise about.” 

An elderly man, who proved to be the head-man of 
Rhoda’s village, proceeded to make a long speech. It 
was not right, he said, to take children from their par¬ 
ents and let them be eaten by crocodiles and wild 
beasts. The whole country would rise and destroy the 
school if this went on. Besides, the river-god was now 
very angry at losing his prey, and would surely take 
other lives in revenge. 

“Do you mean,” asked Miss Brown calmly, “that I 
should have let the crocodile have the little girl, so 
that the river god would be satisfied?” While the 
head-man paused to digest the question she went on: 
“The child might just as easily have been caught by 
a leopard at home in the bush, or bitten by a snake in 
the long grass. There you would have had no medi¬ 
cines, and no one to care for her as we are doing. 
Everything has been done for her, and she will be 
well again in a short time.” 

But the friends of the little girl insisted stubbornly 
that she must go home with them at once and never 
come back to this bad place. The teacher was deceiv¬ 
ing them; the child had lost her whole leg, perhaps 
both of them. Perhaps she would die. How could they 
know? They would take her home, and she could be 
buried where her people lived. 

“Let the child’s father and mother come in and see 
her,” said Miss Brown at last in desperation. “They 


THE CROCODILE THAT WENT HUNGRY 


199 


can see for themselves that she is not dying, has both 
her legs, and is not anxious to be taken home.” 

Timidly the parents ventured into the house. Stairs 
they had never seen before, and they ascended them 
crouching, almost on their hands and knees. In spite 
of her anxiety, Miss Brown could hardly help laugh¬ 
ing. 

Rhoda lay awake in her white bed smiling serenely. 
She let her parents examine her little black leg in its 
bandages, wiggling her toes obligingly to show that 
she was still in one piece. When they proposed taking 
her home she was ready with her refusal. 

“No, daddy! No, mammy! Don’t ask me to go 
home with you. I lobe dis place, an’ de girls, an’ de 
teacher, an’ I want to stay. What you do if I go 
home? You take fire, an’ you burn my leg to take de 
poison out. Miss Brown, she put good medicine on it, 
dat take de burn away; I like dat much better, fo’ 
true-true! You sen’ fo’ dat ol’ witch doctor, an’ he 
make big noise all night—yell loud, shake rattle, fo’ 
to scare bad spirits away. Miss Brown, I hear her 
say, ‘Hush, girls, be very quiet all dis afternoon; poor 
little Rhoda want to sleep so she get well quick.’ Dat 
much nicer fo’ Rhoda. Maybe you kill chicken, t’row 
it in de ribber, fo’ to make dat ol’ ribber-god’s heart 
lay down good. What Miss Brown do? She kill 
chicken too; but she not t’row him in de ribber. She 
make nice chicken broth fo’ Rhoda. I t’ink dat much 
mo’ sense fo’ to do with a chicken! Daddy, mammy, I 
come here to catch sense. Want to learn book. Some 
day I come back an’ tell you plenty t’ings I learn here. 
You go home; Rhoda stay here an’ learn.” 

When the crowd had at last departed, in high good 
humor over the “dash,” or present of pins, beads and 
other small articles which Miss Brown ordered Mam- 


200 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


my Sue to give them, the teacher came and sat beside 
the little girl’s bed in the sunset glow. 

“Tell me, Rhoda,” she said, “why were you so anx¬ 
ious to stay with us?” 

“Oh, Miss Brown,” said the little girl with tears in 
her big, soft eyes, “you been so good to me; take such 
good care; always speak kin’. I know you do it be¬ 
cause you lobe Jesus. Rhoda lobe Jesus, too; want to 
learn mo’ about Him; some day go back an’ tell peo¬ 
ple in de bush all about dat good Jesus.” 

“Do you mean you want to tell your father and 
mother and the other people in your village about 
Jesus, Rhoda, dear?” 

“Yes, Miss Brown, an’ plenty mo’ people too. Want 
to go ’way back in de bush, where people neber hear 
one word about Him, an’ tell all ob dem Jesus makes 
people good an’ kin’; tell de truth, neber say bad 
words, help ebery one. Tell dem all to come an’ learn 
about Jesus.” 

And Miss Brown kissed the prospective missionary 
good-night, very thankful indeed that the crocodile 
had missed his dinner that day. 


BY THE SIDE OF THE STREAM 

Mei Ling was a little Chinese girl. If she had lived 
in America she would have been going to school and 
helping her mother at home, and would hardly have 
been thinking at all about going away to a home of 
her own. But, being in China, she was considered 
quite old enough to be married. 

“Our daughter,” said Mei Ling’s mother to her 
father one day, “is growing to be a woman. It is time 
she should have a husband. I must speak to the go- 
between.” 

So Mei Ling’s mother sent for Chun Lei, the go- 
between. She was an elderly woman, whose business 
it was to arrange marriages; that is, as her title shows, 
to go between the family of the girl who is to be 
married and the family of some young man who wants 
a wife. The whole thing is arranged by this woman. 
It would be very much out of place in China for a man 
to go and ask directly for the girl he wanted to marry. 

First of all, Chun Lei found out from Mei Ling’s 
mother the year, day and hour of the little girl’s birth. 
This was taken to a fortune teller, to be compared 
with the date of the young man’s birth, so as to see 
whether it would do for them to marry. If the signs 
under which they were born did not agree, then they 
would quarrel and be unhappy all their lives, and it 
would be very unlucky for them to marry. 

“I have found a young man whose birth sign is very 
lucky,” announced Chun Lei, coming into the house 
a few days later, “and his family sends an offer of 
marriage to Mei Ling.” 


201 


202 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


A few days later came the betrothal presents from 
the young man’s family. These were gifts of tea, 
cakes, betel-nuts and money, in flat, round boxes 
made of wood. 

Now Mei Ling was engaged to be married, and 
must stay in the house until’her wedding day. If call¬ 
ers came, she must not see them but must go at once 
into another room. If she went to visit her relatives, 
it must be in a tightly-closed sedan chair. 

She had never seen her future husband; she knew 
that his name was Chang Fu, but beyond that he was 
an utter stranger to her. Even her parents had never 
seen him; but his parents had made the proper be¬ 
trothal gifts, and that was all that was necessary. 

At last all the ceremonies had been duly performed; 
the marriage contract was signed and the money paid 
over to Mei Ling’s father. It did not occur to him 
that he was really selling his little daughter. The 
Chinese think it is only right that the parents of a girl 
should be paid when they let their daughter go out of 
their home and lose her services. It was the custom of 
their country, and neither Mei Ling nor her parents 
saw anything wrong about it. 

Then came the wedding day. All the girls who used 
to play with Mei Ling had been at her house for some 
days before the wedding, to weep with her over leav¬ 
ing her home. All the fine clothes that had been made 
for her were carried to the home of her betrothed, 
being borne in procession through the streets by ser¬ 
vants in red jackets. This was to show everybody how 
well Mei Ling was provided for. 

“Here comes the bridal chair!” exclaimed one of 
the girls, who had been peeping out into the street to 
watch for its coming. 


BY THE SIDE OF THE STREAM 


203 


It was a very large, heavy sedan chair, with a great 
deal of carving on it, and decorated with kingfishers’ 
feathers. Nobody but a bride could ever ride in it. 
There was quite a procession of people with it carry¬ 
ing lanterns and playing on drums and cymbals. 

‘‘The bridegroom’s friend has brought the letter,” 
said another girl, skurrying back from the door. The 
girls were not weeping and wailing now, but were just 
as much excited as American girls would be, tittering 
and crowding around Mei Ling as she came forward 
to receive the letter. It was written on red paper 
tinged with gold, and was an invitation from the 
bridegroom for Mei Ling to come to his home. 

Mei Ling, with her face completely hidden by a 
veil of red silk, entered the great bridal chair, and was 
carried away to the home of her betrothed. As the 
chair was set down at his door he rapped on it with 
his fan; then the bridesmaids opened the chair and 
Mei Ling, still veiled, stepped out. 

The bridegroom went before her into the house and 
took his seat on a high stool. Mei Ling prostrated 
herself before him, to show that she would be an 
obedient wife. Then he came down from his stool, 
drew away the red veil, and for the first time saw 
the face of his little wife. 

And now Mei Ling was Mrs. Chang Fu, and lived in 
the house of Chang Fu’s parents. She was an obedient 
little daughter-in-law, and her new relatives were kind 
to her; but Chang Fu was an only son and spoiled as 
such only sons are likely to be, and she soon found 
out that he had a very hot temper. 

It was not often that he was angry with her, for 
she was very careful to please him; but she trembled 
when she heard him abusing the servants, though his 


204 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


father and mother only laughed and said, “See what 
a lordly spirit he has!” 

One day Mei Ling was going in a sedan chair to 
visit her parents, when a crowd in the street stopped 
the bearers who carried the chair. Mei Ling looked 
out to see what was going on, and right beside her 
she saw a foreigner, in strange American clothes, 
talking to the people. 

Mei Ling did not understand all he said, but she 
liked the song he sang after he had done speaking. It 
was an old, old song, but it was new to Mei Ling, for 
the stranger sang “Jesus loves me” to the very same 
tune we sing, but the words were Chinese. 

Mei Ling did not know that anybody loved her ex¬ 
cept her parents; but the man said that Jesus loved 
everybody. All day long Mei Ling kept thinking about 
the song the foreigner had sung. 

Next time she went on a visit she passed a little 
chapel and heard the same song. 

She asked questions of the servants, and one of 
them told her that she went quite often to the little 
chapel to hear about the loving Jesus. The chapel was 
on the other side of a little stream, and it was not 
always easy to get there, but Mei Ling had a cousin 
living on that side and she made an excuse to visit 
her often, and stopped at the chapel on the way. 

Presently Mei Ling had become a regular worshiper 
at the little prayer house, and had heard the story of 
Jesus and His wonderful love. Again and again she 
went, for she could not stay away. 

She would have liked to be baptized, but she felt 
sure Chang Fu would never allow it. He was a very 
devout worshiper of the gods, and had no love for 
the “foreign devils.” 


BY THE SIDE OF THE STREAM 


205 


“Chang Fu,” said one of his friends one day, “why 
does your wife go so often to the foreign prayer house 
beyond the stream?” 

Then Chang Fu went home in a towering rage and 
said, “Mei Ling, what does this mean? I hear that 
you have been worshiping with the foreign devils!” 

Poor little Mei Ling was very much frightened, but 
she looked up bravely and said, “It is true.” 

Chang Fu raised his hand and struck her a blow 
that made her cheek burn for hours. Mei Ling cried 
bitterly, but next day she went again to the chapel. 

This time Chang Fu beat her with a stick. Had she 
not promised to obey him, and was it not his business 
to make her do it? But Mei Ling, bruised and sore, 
waited a few days and then persuaded the bearers to 
take her to the chapel again. 

There was still a harder thing to bear that night, 
when Mei Ling had to listen to the cruel strokes that 
Chang Fu laid across the backs of the bearers before 
he came to punish her. She was not to go out any 
more in the chair; indeed, the bearers would refuse 
to take her. 

“Then I must walk,” said Mei Ling to herself, look¬ 
ing at her little bound feet. She had never walked 
out of doors since she was a tiny girl, except with a 
servant on each side to support her. 

But it was the only way; so one day, when Chang 
Fu was out of the house and his mother was asleep, 
she slipped out and tottered along the road to the 
chapel. 

It was slow work, and just as she had reached the 
bank of the little stream and was wondering how she 
would ever manage to cross the stepping stones, she 
heard an angry shout behind her. 


206 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


It was Chang Fu, and he was running after her. 
She could not possibly get away from him. 

Down on the ground knelt trembling little Mei 
Ling. 

“O Jesus,” she prayed, “I must go to worship! 
Change my husband’s heart. Take away the angry 
spirit and make him a Christian.” 

She heard steps close to her now, but she did not 
open her eyes or stop praying. 

Chang Fu stopped to listen. Over and over again 
he heard the words, “Change my husband’s heart and 
make him a Christian.” 

He hardly knew why, but all of a sudden the anger 
was gone from his heart. He heard the song, “Jesus 
loves me,” swelling out from the little chapel across 
the stream. He looked down at his little wife, trem¬ 
bling with fear but praying on bravely. 

Suddenly Mei Ling felt strong arms about her and 
there was no anger in their touch. She opened her eyes, 
fearfully, and, behold, Chang Fu was carrying her 
across the stepping stones and up the slope to the 
little prayer house! 

Together they entered the chapel; together they 
sat on one of the rough benches and bent their heads 
over the same hymn book. And all the time Mei Ling 
was saying in her happy heart, “Thank you, dear 
Jesus, thank you! I knew you could do it!” 


WHEN THE DATES WERE RIPE 

“Waken, Yusuf! Waken, Ali!” called Sidi ben 
Saada to his sons. “Praise be to Allah, there is a 
bountiful crop of dates; but if my lazy ones do not 
arise, how shall they be gathered?” 

The boys rubbed their sleepy eyes, then scrambled 
to their feet and ran to the door. All the people who 
lived in the little town on the edge of the desert 
seemed to be astir. Boys and men armed with sickles, 
or leading donkeys loaded with boxes, went hurrying 
by; while the tiny children, too young to help in the 
date gathering, toddled after them as fast as they 
could go, for a share in the fun. 

“Take Fatima! Fatima wants to go!” cried the little 
sister, as Ali and Yusuf were about to hurry away 
without waiting for such trifles as face washing or 
breakfast. 

“It is late,” said Yusuf impatiently. “Fatima is so 
slow.” 

But Ali, who had turned aside and held out his 
hand to the little girl, said, “Go, then, Yusuf. Fatima 
and I will come after you. She is too little to go 
alone.” 

“Let her stay, then,” muttered Yusuf, hastening on. 

When they reached the great garden of date palms 
many hands were already busy gathering the fruit. 
Up one tree went quickly a small boy with a sickle. 
Another followed him, stopping a little way below 
him; then another and another, till the long stem of 
the palm was dotted with clinging boys. 

While Ali and Fatima were still some distance 
away, they heard the song of thanks which everybody 
in the garden joined in chanting before the first clus- 
207 


208 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


ter of dates was cut. Then the boy at the top cut a 
bunch of golden dates with his sickle, and handed it 
to the boy below him. He passed the bunch to *the 
next boy, and so on, until it was seized by a boy 
standing on the ground. 

Then the bunch was carried to a group of men 
who were squatting on the ground, ready to sort the 
dates and pack them into boxes. 

Now the sport began. As the tree was stripped 
of its fruit the smallest children gathered under it, 
ready for the hunting of rats, which live in great 
numbers among the palm trees. 

“I see a rat, Ali! I see one!” cried tiny Fatima in 
delight. “Yusuf, throw me a stick!” 

The rats, running from the boys, went to the ends 
of the branches and tried to hide under the leaves. 

“Shake it now! Shake the branch!” screamed the 
children below, wild with delight. 

Yusuf shook a branch, and a fat gray rat fell from 
the leaves. There was a shout of joy, and the children 
fell over one another in a scramble to secure the 
strange plaything. 

The child who succeeded in getting it carried it at 
once to an old Arab who sat by, waiting to be called 
upon for this purpose. He cut off the sharp teeth of 
the rat, fastened to its hind leg a string of palm fiber, 
and gave it back to its young owner, a safe but un¬ 
happy plaything. 

Meantime more rats were being shaken among the 
children, and loud were the cries as each fat victim 
was seized by a small pair of hands. Little Fatima 
was rather timid, and for some time no rat fell to her 
share. 

Her lips began to quiver; but Ali, who by this time 
had climbed a tree, called down to her, “Do not cry, 


WHEN THE DATES WERE RIPE 


209 


Fatima, dear one! There are plenty of rats; every 
child will have one or two, and I will see that you get 
some. Then, when the day’s work is done, we will 
kill them, and I will cook yours over the coals for you 
to eat.” 

Not one of the Arabs saw any cruelty in giving the 
rats to the children to be tormented all day before 
they were killed. It was the custom of the desert, and 
that made it right in their eyes. 

At last Ali succeeded in shaking a fine rat right 
into his little sister’s hands. 

“Catch him by the back, Fatima,” he cried. But tiny 
Fatima was afraid and held the big rat fearfully by 
its tail. Suddenly a shriek arose, and Ali came down 
almost as quickly as the rat. 

“He has bitten me!” sobbed poor Fatima. Sidi ben 
Saada came up in haste, hearing the cry of his small 
daughter; and a neighbor’s little girl ran quickly off to 
tell Fatima’s mother. 

Soon a circle of sympathizing friends were busy 
suggesting remedies. 

“Burn it, and kill the poison,” said one. “Cut out the 
bitten spot,” cried another, flourishing a sickle. Fatima 
screamed louder than ever. “No, no,” said an old 
grandmother soothingly. “A nice poultice of spiders 
would be the best.” 

Ali, who was greatly distressed, because he had 
thrown his little sister the rat which had hurt her, 
pulled gently at his father’s sleeve. 

“Shall I get the hakim (doctor) ?” he asked 

“It is no use,” said Sidi. “He has gone three days’ 
journey to the marriage of his sister; he will not 
be back for a week.” 

“But the rat-bite will poison our Fatima,” persisted 


210 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Ali, almost crying himself. “Let me get the hakim 
lady from the Mission school.” 

“She would not come,” said Sidi gloomily. “She 
asked me one day for Fatima to come to the—what 
did she call it?” 

“Kindergarten,” said Ali. 

“And I said,” continued his father, “that it was not 
worth while, because girls have no brains and cannot 
learn. 

“ ‘But I have learned to read and write,’ she said, 
‘and I am a woman.’ 

“Then I said to her, ‘Yes, but you have no husband! 
If our girls learn, no one will want to marry them; 
nobody wants a wife who knows as much as he does; 
for then she will not obey him. You could not get a 
husband yourself, or you would not be unmarried.’ 

“Then she walked away. I know she was much of¬ 
fended, and she surely would not come if we sent for 
her.” 

“Will you let her come to Fatima if she is willing?” 
said Ali breathlessly. 

His father hesitated, but the little girl still screamed, 
and the wound was beginning to look red and angry; 
so he nodded his head, and Ali was off like an arrow. 

Of course, the hakim lady was only too glad to 
come to little Fatima; and that is how, when the 
Mission kindergarten opened the next month, there 
was a new pupil from the house of Sidi ben Saada. 
And the hakim lady said to the kindergarten teacher, 
“You may thank Ali for that. He is the kindest- 
hearted and the quickest-witted boy I have learned to 
know here; I am going to ask his father to let me 
teach him medicine, so that some day he can be a 
hakim, and cure rat-bites that little folks get when 
the dates are gathered.” 


ON MARTA’S WEDDING DAY 


Marta and Miguel were going to be married. Angel¬ 
ita, Marta’s little sister, was very much excited about 
it. She ran in and out, and asked so many questions 
that Marta said, “One would think it was Angelita 
who was to be married. She is the busiest one in the 
house.” 

“But the wedding dress, Marta!” said Angelita. 
“Will I not run and tell Donna Petra not to let any¬ 
one else have it tomorrow? Somebody might rent it 
before you!” 

“Foolish child!” said Marta. “Do you think I have 
not engaged the dress from Petra, three—yes, four 
weeks ago? Would I wait till the day before, and 
that with Juanita to be married soon, and she would 
not tell me when? Be easy in your mind, little sister; 
tomorrow Petra will come and bring the dress.” 

“Oh,” said Angelita, much relieved, “I was afraid 
you had forgotten!” 

“Let me tell you a secret, Angelita,” continued 
Marta, “but tell no one, for it is a great surprise for 
the guests. The school-mistress, because I have done 
her washing all this year, has promised that I may 
have the box with the horn, to play music for my 
wedding!” 

“O Marta, Marta!” cried Angelita in rapture, “how 
fine that will be! Will she play it for the dancing?” 

“No,” said Marta, regretfully, “she says she has no 
dances; but it can play a wedding-march, just like the 
people in her country have at their weddings; and 
after we come back from church she will play it for 
us, and some more of her beautiful music.” 

211 



212 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Angelita had heard the gramophone several times, 
but it was still a novelty to her, and she danced and 
clapped her hands until Marta was dizzy. 

“Be still, and I will tell you one thing more/’ she 
said. “Because Petra is my friend, she is going to 
rent me her pearl cross for the same as if I had only 
the dress and veil. Will not Juanita be envious of my 
fine things?” 

“The pearl cross!” said Angelita, crossing her little 
forehead devoutly. “Marta, it has not been used since 
Donna Petra’s own sister was married. She always 
wants so high a rent for it.” 

“But she is going to let me wear it,” said Marta, in 
high glee. “Miguel even does not know! Will he not 
be surprised?” 

People of the laboring class in Mexico do not buy 
wedding clothes for themselves; they rent a complete 
outfit for five dollars, wear it on the wedding day, and 
then go back to every-day garments. One good thing 
about this plan is that there is no hurry and worry or 
driving of the dressmaker before the wedding, and the 
bride need not stand to be fitted. A tuck will make 
the dress ready for a short wearer, a flounce will make 
it long enough for a tall one; as to the fit, one need 
not be too particular, for the veil will hide defects. 

There was, but one wedding-dress in the little vil¬ 
lage where Marta lived, and that was owned and rented 
by her friend, Donna Petra. Early on the morning of 
the wedding day Petra arrived with the wedding dress 
in charge. She would put it on Marta; stay by her 
side all day, to see that no harm came to the bridal 
array; and, finally, after the dancing in the evening, 
would carry the whole outfit home, with the money 
paid for its rent. Sometimes it was necessary to keep 


on marta's wedding day 213 

an eye on the dress, though Petra would have trusted 
Marta with anything she owned. 

After the wedding party returned from the church, 
the bride stood on the platform in a little booth made 
of lace curtains and hung all around with small mir¬ 
rors and bright pictures. 

Here she received the congratulations of her friends 
and saw that refreshments were distributed among 
them. The groom is not at all necessary for this part 
of the performance; he may go to church and be mar¬ 
ried in his working clothes, and then go to work and 
return only in time for the dancing. 

In the afternoon, after her school was dismissed, the 
Mission teacher came, followed by a man carrying the 
precious gramophone. By this time Marta was very 
tired of standing on her platform, so she took advan¬ 
tage of the new excitement to find a chair and rest 
before the dancing should begin. 

While the strains of the wedding-march were 
charming the guests, Angelita slipped over to her 
sister. 

“Dear Marta,” she whispered, “Donna Petra ran 
home to see that Carlos does not forget to milk the 
cow. Won’t you let me wear the pearl cross just a 
little while? O Marta, do!” 

Marta looked doubtful; but Angelita was a careful 
little girl, and, after all, the cross would be safer on 
her neck than on Marta’s when the dancing started. 
So she hung the tiny cross on her little sister’s neck, 
with many warnings to be careful of it. 

Angelita, proud as a peacock, found her way to the 
neighborhood of the gramophone, and sat there very 
quietly for awhile, listening to the music. 


214 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


At last, as a concluding piece, the teacher put on 
the record of the Mexican national hymn—a really 
magnificent piece of music, stirring the blood of every¬ 
one who heard it. This record had just come from 
Mexico City a few days before,and it surprised the whole 
company into handclapping. Angelita jumped up, 
much excited, and joined in the final chorus, which 
everybody sang lustily. 

After this the local musicians came, with harp and 
guitar, and the dancing began. The teacher and the 
gramophone departed, and the fun grew rather noisy. 
In the midst of it Donna Petra came flying up, de¬ 
manding, ‘‘Angelita, where is my cross? Marta said 
she gave it to you to keep for her.” 

Angelita’s little brown hand went up to her neck, 
but the cross was gone. 

In a few moments the happy scene was changed. 
The dancing stopped, and everybody began to hunt 
for the pearl cross; but it seemed to have disappeared 
entirely. 

An hour later a sobbing and exhausted little girl 
ran into the arms of the' school-teacher, hastening 
along the road. Angelita was praying aloud: “O San 
Antonio! Blessed San Antonio! Help me to find the 
pearl cross ! It is all my fault; I was vain and careless! 
Oh, help me to find it!” 

“Stop, Angelita!” exclaimed Miss Miller, catching 
her by the arm. “Here is a little pearl cross. Can you 
tell me whose it is?” 

“Where did you find it?” she gasped. 

“In the horn of the gramophone, when I was pack¬ 
ing it away!” said Miss Miller. “Now tell me why 
you have been crying so.” 

“It is all right now,” said the radiant Angelita. “I 


ON marta’s wedding day 


215 


was crying because the cross was lost, and praying 
the good San Antonio to help me find it. Did he send 
you with it, Miss Miller ?” 

“A greater and a better Friend of yours than San 
Antonio sent me to you, dear,” said the lady. “Come, 
we will go together and take the cross to poor Marta; 
and I will tell you about the Friend who finds what is 
lost.” 

It was an old story that the teacher told, walking 
along the road with the little girl’s hand in hers, but 
it was all new to Angelita. It was the story of the 
Shepherd who sought the lost sheep until He found 
it. As the story ended and they drew near the house 
Angelita said shyly, “May I come to the Sunday 
school and hear more about the kind Friend? I would 
like to tell my mother and Marta and Miguel and 
Donna Petra about Him. May I come next Sunday?” 

And the teacher, rejoicing in her heart, replied, 
“Indeed, you may!” 


THE GOOD WHITE MAN 


Through the early morning freshness of tropical 
Africa, an ox-cart went lumbering heavily along. Two 
white men sat upon it, and a number of blacks walked 
beside it, prodding the oxen or carrying bundles on 
their heads. 

One of the white men, a young Scotchman, with 
plain, strongly-marked features, sat reading in a small 
book as the cart jogged on. The other chatted with 
the men by the side of the cart, and presently turned 
to his companion, saying, ‘‘We would better stop. 
Pomare says someone is coming after us from the 
village and beckoning us to wait.” 

When the face of the reader was lifted, an onlooker 
would have forgotten its plainness in the sweetness of 
the smile which illumined it. 

“After us?” said he. “I hope they do not want us to 
go back, for we have made ten or twelve miles, and it 
would be a great loss of time to return. I am anxious 
now to be in Kuruman.” 

“It is a present from the chief,” explained the native 
called Pomare. “He is very much pleased because the 
white doctor has helped his sore eyes. They feel much 
better this morning, and he sends a fine buck for a 
gift.” 

“Truly,” said the doctor, “that will be a welcome 
present. That rhinoceros flesh we have been living on 
is toughness itself, though the gravy is not bad with 
our porridge of cornmeal. Come, I will go myself to 
meet the messengers, and tell them to bear our thanks 
to the chief.” 


216 


THE GOOD WHITE MAN 


217 


Descending from the cart, the missionary made 
known the thanks of the party through an interpreter, 
and arranged for the loading of the buck meat on the 
cart and on the heads of the men who were without 
burdens. This done, he was about to remount the 
cart, when Pomare exclaimed, “Look what is under 
the cart!” 

The doctor bent to look. Sure enough, there was a 
little black girl, perhaps eleven years old, sitting under 
the cart, as much at home as if she were sitting in the 
doorway of her father’s hut. 

“Who is she, Pomare, and how did she come here?” 
asked the missionary. 

Pomare began to question the little girl. 

“She has no parents,” he presently told the doctor. 
“She lived with her sister, who has lately died. Some 
neighbors took her in; but she found out that they had 
done it so that they could sell her to some rich man for 
a wife. See how she is dressed up with strings of 
beads, so that she will fetch a higher price!” 

“Sold!” said the doctor. “And how comes she here?” 

“She saw us in the village,” said Pomare, “and she 
says, ‘The white doctor looked good and kind, and I 
knew he would help me. So I ran away and followed 
his wagon, and I want you to let me walk behind it 
till you get to Kuruman.’ She says she has friends 
there.” 

“Walk all that way!” exclaimed the white doctor. 
“How can she do it? We must take her on the cart.” 

“No, no!” said Pomare. “If she were seen riding 
with you it would be said that you had stolen her. 
Let her follow if she will,” he added pityingly. 

“Let us go slowly, then, and rest often,” said the 
tender-hearted missionary. “She must be hungry.” 


218 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


And with his own hands he gave her some of the food 
prepared for his lunch. 

Hardly had he returned to his book when a sound 
of bitter sobbing made him lay it down again and leap 
quickly from the cart. 

“What is the child crying about ?” he asked anx¬ 
iously. 

“See,” said Pomare, pointing back, “a man with a 
gun is coming; no doubt he has been sent to take her 
back.” 

“What can I do?” asked the doctor in distress. “I 
cannot refuse to give her up and make that whole vil¬ 
lage, that has treated us so kindly, think me a kid¬ 
napper. But how can I send the poor child back to a 
life of slavery?” 

“Let me manage it,” said Pomare. “My father is a 
chief, and they know I have some authority and will 
listen to me.” 

The man with the gun was very angry. He came 
up to the cart, pointed at the little girl and jabbered 
away in what sounded like very bad language, though 
the white men could not understand it. Pomare stood 
calmly till he was done, and then commenced to speak. 

Suddenly the child began to strip off the beads with 
which she was loaded, holding them up by handfuls 
and offering them to the man. 

He chattered a little more, but not so angrily. 
Finally he took the beads and turned away, while the 
little girl crept trembling under the cart again. 

“She has given all her beads if they will only let 
her go free,” said Pomare. “He has taken them, but he 
cannot say whether that will satisfy his masters or 
not. .They will likely send for her again.” 


THE GOOD WHITE MAN 


219 


“They shall not get her!” declared the doctor with 
decision. “Not if they send fifty men after her! Come, 
hasten! I will find means to hide her, and, afterwards, 
we will plan some way to get her to Kuruman. She 
deserves to be free.” 

And so she was, after many narrow escapes—the 
little girl who trusted the kind face of the good white 
man. She made no mistake when she said he would 
help her; for the white doctor was David Livingstone, 
who did more to set the sons and daughters of Africa 
free than any other man that ever lived. 


MAMMY LOU’S MEDICINE 


“ ’Deed, Sis’ Lou, dem chillens has me mos’ wild!” de¬ 
clared the portly colored matron of the Girl’s School, 
wiping the beads of sweat from her gleaming black fore¬ 
head. 

“What’s the matter, Aunty ’Ria?” inquired the white 
teacher, who was “holding the fort” with one assistant 
and the matron, at this lone post on the western coast of 
Africa. 

“Dunno, Sis’ Lou,” sighed the matron. “It look to me 
like de bad sperits is in dem. First dey fight, jes’ over 
nothin’ at all. Den dey call each other liars, an’ t’iefs, an’ 
all sorts of names; an’ dey swears—oh, my sakes, Sis’ 
Lou, how dey swears!” 

“Poor little girls!” said Miss Lou. “They don’t know 
any better, Aunty ’Ria; you know, they hear such dread¬ 
ful language at home, back in the bush, before we get 
them here.” 

“Yessum, I knows,” said Aunty ’Ria indignantly. “Dese 
African niggers is sho’ good for nothin’. I ain’t been used 
to such carryin’s on, with debbil dances an’ all dose af¬ 
fairs. You know, Sis’ Lou,” she said proudly, “I’se from 
de United States; I’se none o’ dese low-down bush nig¬ 
gers. Dat’s what I always tells de girls, when dey makes 
such a fuss over deir ol’ Liberian flag, with one star on it. 
‘Go ’way,’ I says, ‘you only got one star on your flag. 
I’se American, an’ my flag done got plenty stars on it.’ ” 

“Well, well, Aunty ’Ria,” said Miss Lou, rising, “I’ll 
see what I can do with the girls. You can point out the 
ringleaders to me, and I’ll make an example of them.” 

220 


MAMMY LOU’S MEDICINE 


221 


“It don’t do no good to whip ’em,” protested the ma¬ 
tron. “Dey gets whipped so much at home deir hides is 
jes’ naturally tanned before we gets ’em. Whippin’ ain’t 
nothin’ to dem!” 

“I’m going to do worse than whip them,” declared Miss 
Lou, the corners of her mouth growing firm as a sound 
of blows and a cry of pain floated in to her. And she went 
out hastily, Aunty ’Ria following her in awed delight. 
“Sis’ Lou” was a big woman—almost six feet tall, and 
strong as a man. If she took matters in hand, things would 
happen! 

There was neither strap nor stick in Miss Lou’s hand 
when she reached the girls; only a basin of water, some 
rags and a cake of palm-oil soap. 

“Girls,” she said very gravely, “I’ve been hearing some 
very bad talk coming out of your mouths.” 

“ ’Twasn’t me, Mammy Lou,” they began to clamor, 
“ ’twas her—an’ her—an’-” 

“That will do,” said the teacher, sterner than ever. 
“Sarah and Lucy and Annabel, you may come here.” 

Silence fell on the noisy mob of schoolgirls. Mammy 
Lou, with her wonderful knowledge of everything they 
did, had picked out the very girls who had started the 
“bad words.” 

“When such words come out of a girl’s mouth,” said 
Miss Lou, graver than ever, “I think she must be very 
bad indeed on the inside of the mouth, don’t you?” 

“Yes’m, yes’m!” assented all the girls but the three 
culprits. 

“When you have a breaking out on your body,” went on 
the teacher, “we give you medicine to drive the bad blood 
out. You know that, don’t you?” 

The girls agreed in deeper awe than ever. 

“Well, I’m going to use some medicine to drive the bad 
words out of your mouth; and I’m going to begin on 



222 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


these three girls,” declared Mammy Lou, advancing to¬ 
ward Annabel. 

Now, it isn’t nice at any time to have your mouth 
washed out with soap, even when the soap is mild and 
scented. But when it is palm-oil soap, with its taste of 
the most aged kind of rancid butter, all joy in the 
performance is decidedly lacking. 

Whipping, as Aunty ’Ria had said, was a commonplace 
thing to these wild girls from the bush. They would have 
whimpered awhile if Mammy Lou had thrashed them, and 
would straightway have forgotten it. But such “medicine” 
as this had never been known before. 

Down on the ground Annabel threw herself and began 
to scream as if she were being murdered. The taste of the 
soap was worse every time she closed her mouth, so she 
presently decided not to close it at all. 

“Ah-h-h, poor me!” she wailed. “Got no mammy, got 
no daddy! O daddy, come an’ get your chile! You often 
flog me, but you never did me so-o-o!” 

Sarah and Lucy quickly imitated her, and the rest of 
the girls joined in from sympathy. Miss Lou put her 
fingers in her ears and fled, overwhelmed at the success 
of her punishment. 

Now across the river were the buildings of the Boys’ 
School, and there lived Mr. Walker, the superintendent 
of the Mission. On that still evening, sound carried clearly 
over the water; and when the noise of the screams and 
wailing floated across the river Mr. Walker was alarmed. 

He could think of no cause for such an uproar, unless 
the whole population of the Girls’ School had been taken 
with cholera, or bitten by a snake or attacked by a leopard; 
so he stuffed all the pockets of his long ulster with all the 
medicine bottles he could carry, and told two of the boys 
to get out a canoe and row him quickly over the river. 


MAMMY LOU’S MEDICINE 


223 


This was not an easy matter, for the river was full of 
rapids; so dusk was falling when the superintendent 
mounted the hill to the Girls’ School. 

The girls had grown tired of rolling on the ground and 
screaming, and were lying there in sullen silence, waiting 
to be called in to bed. The darkness and silence frightened 
the superintendent still more. Surely everybody must be 
dead, or it would not be so quiet! 

At the sound of his footsteps and the flashing of his 
lantern the girls sat up. He lifted the lantern high and 
surveyed the sheepish-looking crowd of children with 
great relief. 

“Well, now, girls,” he began, in his deliberate way, 
“what was the noise about?” 

The girls nudged Annabel, and she said sulkily, 
“Mammy Lou gave us some medicine.” 

“And I can give you some more, if it’s necessary; re¬ 
member that, girls!” said the superintendent, patting his 
jingling pockets suggestively. Then he passed indoors, 
to get the full account from Miss Lou, with delighted 
comments from Aunty ’Ria. 

Nothing was said after that about palm-oil medicine, 
nor were “bad words” in evidence for a long time. But 
all next day, as Miss Lou sat writing in her room or hear¬ 
ing the little ones recite their lessons, there would be 
frequent interruptions, very much alike. 

A curly, black head would appear stealthily around the 
door, bare feet would steal across the creaking boards, 
and a dark little hand would lay penitently on the desk 
a peace-offering—a bird’s nest, a pretty pebble, or a bunch 
of wild flowers. The girls were trying to tell Mammy 
Lou that they were sorry and ashamed, and would do 
their best never to need any more of her “medicine.” 


THE CHILDREN’S EMPEROR 


“Where have you been, dear?” asked mother as Edith 
came in very quietly, with eyes that looked suspiciously 
moist. 

“Just up the alley to ask how Miss Fannie is,” said 
Edith. “Her sister said she is just about the same.” 

Mother’s face was very full of sympathy as she put her 
arm around the little girl. Miss Fannie was the beloved 
teacher of the first primary, and she had been very sick 
for the last two weeks. 

Miss Fannie’s sister, Ruth, had told Edith’s mother , 
about the sad little procession that filed up the alley to 
the back door every day after school was out. 

“And it doesn’t make much difference what time I go 
to the door from four o’clock on till dark, there’s almost 
sure to be a little face looking through the fence, and a 
little voice asking ‘How’s Miss Fannie ?’ ” added Ruth. 

“It’s dreadful in school!” declared Edith. “The substi¬ 
tute’s pretty nice, but she doesn’t know Miss Fannie’s \ 
ways. You know, mother. Miss Fannie just made us want \ 
to do things! Every time I look at her desk a lump comes 
in my throat; and every time I go up the alley to her house 
I’m afraid to ask, for fear she’s worse! All the children 
are just the same.” 

“You remind me of something I have just been reading 
about the Emperor of Japan,” said her mother, taking up 
a magazine that lay on the table. “When he was sick the 
school children used to come by hundreds to learn how 
he was, just as you all go streaming up the alley. 

“Sometimes they went together, sometimes alone, but 
there were always little folks waiting to hear the latest 
224 


THE CHILDREN'S EMPEROR 


225 


reports. The guards often saw them bowing toward the 
palace, or prostrating themselves on the gravel to pray that 
the Emperor’s life might be spared.” 

“Why did they care for him so much?” asked Edith. 
“He wasn’t their teacher, like Miss Fannie.” 

“He was very fond of children,” said mother. “Every¬ 
body in Japan loved and prayed for the Emperor, for he 
was a kind and good ruler; but the children loved him 
most of all, because he loved them so well. 

“Whenever the Emperor traveled about through the 
country, wherever his train stopped, the school children 
were always lined up at the station to see him. It was the 
proper thing to do when the Emperor passed by, so the 
teachers used to bring them all out, no matter what the 
weather was, and there they would stand till the train 
had gone again. 

“Japanese children are taught that to do honor to the 
Emperor is the greatest thing in life; besides, they are 
taught to bear all kinds of discomfort and never to com¬ 
plain. So they would stand there like statues, rain or 
shine, as long as the Emperor was in sight. 

“One day it was very cold; the snow was falling and 
the wind blowing, and the children were standing out in 
the open, with nothing to protect them from the storm. 
The Emperor saw them stand there, and he was very 
angry. His court officials said they had never seen him 
so much vexed. 

“ 'Let this never happen to my children again!’ he said. 

“And after that no child ever went out to meet the 
Emperor without having an umbrella strapped to its back, 
with the lunch basket, in case of storm.” 

“No wonder they loved him!” said Edith. “And they 
prayed for him to get well ? Do you think it would be a 
gtood thing for us to do, mother? I’d kind of hate to 


226 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


kneel down in the alley, but I don’t want those Japanese 
children to care more than we do.” 

“I think you can pray for Miss Fannie just as well at 
home, dear,” said mother, trying not to smile. 

“Did the Emperor get well, after they prayed for him?” 
asked Edith suddenly. Mother was serious enough now, 
and hesitated before she replied. 

“No, dear, he didn’t. Last year it was said that about 
thirty thousand school children went every week to see 
the beautiful green hill where he sleeps among the bamboo 
trees.” 

“Oh, well,” said Edith hopefully, “they had only old 
heathen idols to pray to. I’m going to tell all the boys 
and girls about the Emperor and the children, and I guess 
Miss Fannie will like to hear about them, too—after she 
gets well!” 




ON THE OUTSIDE OF CHRISTMAS 


“Grandmother,” asked Juana, “why do the American 
children go every day to the hall and sing ?” 

“I do not know, my child,” said old Carmela. “It mat¬ 
ters not to me. Since the Americans came to Panama all 
things are upside down. Your Uncle Jose was here this 
morning, and he said that where he lives there will soon 
be no village any more.” 

“Why not?” asked curious Juana. “And where will he 
live then?” 

“Where will he live ?” repeated the grandmother, push¬ 
ing the long gray hair from her dim old eyes. “How do 
I know ? He will have to find another place to live, he and 
his wife Marie, and all the little ones. Why? Because 
the Americans are making their big ditch”—Carmela 
meant the Panama Canal, of course—“right over the 
place where the village was. When the water is turned 
in, all that country will be in the big lake they are mak¬ 
ing.” 

“How queer!” said Juana. “I wish I could see the great 
waters come in, all over the land. And when the big ships 
come through it will be still more wonderful. What was 
it like, grandmother, before the Americans came here?” 

“Not like this,” said Carmela with a sigh. “It was quiet, 
and people could live where they pleased, and food was 
plenty; there were no great wagons without horses rush¬ 
ing around to knock one down; it was dark and still at 
night, and one could sleep better.” 

“But there was not so much to see,” said Juana, who 
could barely remember the time when the Canal Zone was 
not full of American ladies and children, in their pretty 
clothes, and workmen of all nations, speaking every known 
language. 


227 


228 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Yes, you are always for seeing!” grumbled Carmela, 
pouring a handful of corn on the flat stone before her, 
and taking up the smaller stone with which she ground 
the corn by rolling the stone over it. “There is too much 
hard work in the world for people always to be running 
to see something! If you want to know why the children 
go to the hall, why don’t you go and see?” 

“I will,” said Juana. “Come, Pedro, we will go and find 
out what they are doing.” 

Up to the clubhouse the two children went. Sounds of 
music were swelling out from the large room where the 
American children had assembled. Juana and Pedro dared 
not enter, but they hung on the railing of the veranda, 
peering eagerly through the windows. 

The songs were very beautiful, and some of the chil¬ 
dren wore gay costumes. A Christmas cantata was in 
prospect, and every day for several weeks the children 
had come after school to practice; but today was the first 
dress rehearsal. 

“Get out of here, you kids!” spoke a rough voice, and 
a big boy with an air of importance shoved Pedro roughly 
from the railing. “You’re not in this! What do you know 
about Christmas? Get out, I say!” 

Juana and her little brother sadly withdrew, casting 
many longing glances back at the clubhouse. 

“I didn’t ask to be in it,” Juana said hotly. “I only 
wanted to see. Christmas must be a fine thing, even to 
be on the outside of. I do know about Christmas. It comes 
every year, and they have gifts on that day; but they 
never made so great a Christmas as this.” 

It was true that this celebration was to surpass all that 
had ever been held in that part of Panama. There was a 
larger American community there now than there had 
ever been before; a young teacher had come there who 
knew how to train children for a larger program than 


ON THE OUTSIDE OF CHRISTMAS 


229 


they had yet attempted; and the Americans felt unusually 
like celebrating, for this was the last Christmas many 
of them expected to spend in the Canal Zone. Next year 
the canal would be finished, and they were going “home.” 

Every day Juana watched the children go by, but never 
again did she try to follow them. 

“Why are we ‘not in’ Christmas?” she said to her 
grandmother. 

“Only the rich American children are in that kind of 
Christmas,” said Carmela. “Poor children, like you and 
Pedro, must stay on the outside.” 

On Christmas eve Juana’s heart almost burst with envy 
as she saw the children go by with their parents, all 
laughing and excited. 

“Come, Pedro,” she said, “I am going to put on the old 
white dress of Annie’s that Dona Harris gave me when 
I took her washing home. I will wash your face; and 
maybe we can get near enough to see what the inside of 
Christmas is like.” 

The approaches to the hall were crowded, and the 
children could not get near. But on one side of the veranda 
stood a small but stout young tree. 

“Up, Pedro!” said Juana. “It is almost dark, and they 
will not see us. We can look right in the window and see 
it all.” 

What a wonderful evening it was! A Christmas tree— 
not a pine, but a more tropical kind—was placed at the 
head of the hall, glittering with stars and angels. Pedro 
and Juana had never seen anything like it. The beauti¬ 
fully dressed children did their parts with an ease that 
seemed little short of a miracle to the bashful little Pana- 
mans. 

But the best part of all was when all the children joined 
in singing the old carol, “O Santissimo. The children 
in the tree could catch the words of this better, because it 


230 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


was in Spanish; and the tune was familiar to their ears. 
They had hard work to keep from joining; but now they 
saw a sight that made them hold their breath. 

Instead of receiving gifts, the long line of children 
was marching forward, bringing presents of all sorts to 
the platform. Food, clothing, toys, all sorts of things 
were heaped up there; but the boy and girl in the tree, 
strain their eyes as they might, could not see who received 
them. 

Soon the exercises were over, and they went away, 

much puzzled over their first glimpse of a “giving Christ- 

,, ^ 

mas. 

“Do you suppose they are for little Jesus, for His 
birthday, that they sang about ?” asked Juana. But Pedro 
could not answer. 

On Christmas morning, bright and early, came visitors 
to old Carmela’s door. Bright-faced Annie Harris, and 
two of her little friends, had brought a big basket. 

There were groceries, a new scarf for Carmela, a ribbon 
for Juana, a gay necktie for Pedro, and several toys for 
both children. 

“It is your part from the Christmas tree,” explained 
Annie in her best Spanish. “We wanted everybody to be 
happy with us this Christmas, and so we have presents 
for all; we wish you a merry Christmas, all of us!” 

“I thought your Christmas was only for Americans,” 
said Juana, hugging the first real doll she had ever had. 
“I looked in the window and saw the heaps of things, 
and I thought maybe they were for the baby Jesus—the 
one you sang about,” she added. 

Annie put her arm around Juana. 

“So they were,” she said, “but He told us to give them 
to you for Him, because that would please Him best.” 

“I-Ie is very good,” said Juana, her small dark face 
in a glow. “I could love that little Jesus! Oh, but it is a 
beautiful thing to be on the inside of Christmas!” 


“JUST LIKE A MISSIONARY” 


The new missionary’s wife stood in the open gateway 
of the Mission compound, looking eagerly out. She was 
just twenty, just arrived in China, and intensely interested 
in all the sights and sounds of the seaport city. 

The older missionary’s wife joined her at the gate, 
putting a protecting arm about the slender form. She felt 
a secret pity for the girl-wife, who was going in a few 
days with her husband, nearly as new to China and almost 
as young as she, up into the interior to establish a new 
Mission station. 

“Here comes such a quaint old woman!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Lambert—for that was the girl-missionary’s new 
name. “She walks so slowly, but she looks around so 
brightly and speaks to everybody she meets.” 

“That is Grandmother Ling,” replied Mrs. Harmon. 
“It will take her some minutes to get up the hill, and 
meantime I can tell you her story, for I feel quite sure 
she is coming to see you, and I want you to know about 
her before you meet her. 

“Twenty years ago, when we first came here to live, 
she was a strong and active woman. She had been a 
widow for some years, without any living children, and 
we were told she would be a good servant for us to 
engage. 

“So she came to work for us. The very first thing she 
did was to set up an image of a Chinese god in the most 
conspicuous place in our kitchen. Morning, noon and night 
she was bowing in front of him, and every day she offered 
him choice bits of the food she prepared for us. 

231 


232 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“I didn’t care for the little portions of chicken and rice 
the idol received, but I did feel as though I ought to tell 
her that idols could not be worshiped in a missionary’s 
kitchen. But my husband said, ‘She is not a young woman, 
and she is very determined. She will only leave us in anger 
if you forbid her to worship her god. Let her alone, and 
try to show her that you care nothing for her idol, but 
you are a friend to her.’ 

“I took his advice, and the bowing and offering of 
incense went on, much to my distaste. But one day, after 
some months had passed, Mrs. Ling came to me with the 
image in her hands. 

“ ‘All these days,’ she said, ‘I have worshiped my god 
in your house. I thought if I were faithful to him you 
might learn to worship him too. But many days have 
passed, and you do not worship my god. He does not 
listen to me when I pray to him, for I asked him to make 
you learn to worship him. Now I bring him to you, for 
I do not want him any more. I want to learn to worship 
your God instead.’ 

“She became one of my husband’s most earnest pupils, 
sitting with the children to learn to read the Bible. Now 
she is one of our most faithful Bible women, and still 
goes about doing much good, though she is almost sev¬ 
enty.” 

Grandmother Ling had reached the top of the hill by 
this time. She was rather breathless, but beaming with 
smiles as she asked to see the “new missionary people.” 
The two ladies conducted her with ceremony into the 
mission house, where their husbands were sitting in close 
conference over the plans for the new mission station. 

“You are going up the river to start a new preaching 
place?” inquired Grandmother Ling, after she had been 
duly presented to the strangers. 

“Yes, we are,” assented Mr. Lambert. 


JUST LIKE A MISSIONARY 


233 


“It is a long, long way you are going,” she went on. 

“Yes.” 

“And it will be hard work?” 

“I suppose it will.” 

“You both look very young,” was her next remark. 

The boyish-looking missionary glanced at his young 
wife with a smile. “Yes, grandmother, I’m afraid we do.” 

“And you must be very inexperienced.” 

“Yes, we are very green,” he admitted laughingly. 

A pause ensued. Then Grandmother Ling startled them 
all by saying, “Well, I am going with you.” 

“Going with us? Oh, we couldn't ask that of you,” 
faltered the bride. 

“Why, grandmother,” put in Mr. Harmon, “how could 
you undertake such a journey? You are getting old, and 
you have your comfortable little home, and your friends 
and your work here. Surely you do not dream of starting 
out, at your age, among strangers.” 

Grandmother Ling stood her ground meekly but de¬ 
cisively. 

“All these years since I have been a Christian,” she 
said, “I have wished it had pleased the Lord to let me be 
a foreign missionary. I go about here and tell people of 
the Gospel; but you have a greater honor, for you have 
been called to leave your homes and your people and go 
among strangers to tell about Jesus. I know I am an old 
woman, but I know China as these young people do not, 
and I am sure I can help them to start their new work. 
I will be no burden; I will carry all I need for the jour¬ 
ney, and I will provide my own food. But this is my 
chance to be just a little like a foreign missionary. Do 
not deny me the blessing God has given to you.” 

There was no more to be said. The missionaries con¬ 
sented with misgivings. On the day when their boat was 
to sail Grandmother Ling appeared, bag and baggage. Her 


234 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


entire outfit consisted of a sleeping-mat, slung and fas¬ 
tened across her shoulders, a three-legged stool, a tea¬ 
kettle, and an expression of serene content. 

“I am ready to start/’ said she. 

The journey was long and tedious, and when the young 
missionary and his wife arrived at the place where the 
new Mission was to be established they found that its 
beginnings would have to be very simple. There was no 
church building; for the present the services must be held 
in the open air; but as a congregation gathered, and as 
cold weather drew near, a rude hut was built which served 
at least as a shelter. 

A dwelling place for the missionaries was scarcely less 
of a problem. There was a house, to be sure, and there 
was a stove and some other furniture, brought up the 
river with them on the boat. But, alas! the stovepipe they 
had brought proved too short to reach into the chimney. 

“I’ve been all over this town”—declared Mr. Lambert, 
coming in weary and ruffled in spirit—“all over this town 
of eleven thousand people, and in all the place there are 
not four feet of stovepipe, nor a piece of sheet tin big 
enough to roll up and make one out of. That is China 
for you!” 

“Well,” said his wife, emerging dusty but triumphant 
from the depths of a packing box, “now I have everything 
out of these big boxes at last. The best we can do is just 
to set the stove up on top of these empty boxes, and then 
the pipe will reach.” 

“But,” objected her husband, “then the stove will be 
so far from the floor that our feet will always be cold.” 

“Then we will put our chairs up on top of the dining 
table and sit there,” calmly declared Mrs. Lambert. And 
that was what they actually did when the cold weather 
came, and thus received hosts of admiring visitors desir¬ 
ing to know if that was the way people lived in America. 


JUST LIKE A MISSIONARY 


235 


While these household problems were taking much of 
their time, Grandmother Ling had established herself in 
a little shed, and was perfectly at home with everybody. 
It mattered little to her whether she had furniture or not; 
she was too busy preparing the way for the missionary 
while yet the weather was mild enough for her to find 
people out at their work. All through the autumn she 
was trotting about with her three-legged stool and her 
teakettle. 

Down along the river she would find a woman busy 
washing. With a friendly greeting she would pause. Down 
on its three legs came the stool, and then grandmother 
perched herself upon it and proceeded to interview the 
woman. 

“It’s a cold day, sister,” she remarked, beginning to 
start a tiny fire under her tea-kettle. 

“Yes, the water is cold, and I am chilled through,” 
sighed the woman, straightening her tired back. 

“Then a cup of tea will refresh you,” said Grand¬ 
mother Ling; and in a few minutes she would hand a 
steaming drink to the grateful toiler. 

“It is hard work to get the clothes clean,” she remarked 
pensively while the tea disappeared. 

“Yes, indeed,” said the woman. “I rub and pound, and 
yet I can scarcely get the dirt out.” 

“Did you know,” asked grandmother persuasively, “that 
your heart needs washing much more than your clothes 
do?” 

“My heart?” exclaimed the woman, startled. “Oh, no, 
my heart is not dirty like the clothes!” 

“Yes, it is,” insisted the old lady. “If you think of all 
you have done and said, even today, you will see how 
many spots there are on it. But there is Somebody who 
can wash them all out, and make your heart whiter than 
the clean clothes.” 


236 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


And so she told the wondering woman of the cleansing 
there is in Jesus Christ. 

Another time it would be in a garden where a woman 
was weeding. 

‘‘Your heart,” grandmother informed her, after the pre¬ 
liminaries with the stool and the teakettle, “is full of 
weeds. But there is One who can pull them out and make 
only good things grow there.” 

So, taking the homely work of every day for her text, 
Grandmother Ling went preaching her little sermons all 
about the town. And the people, warmed by her tea and 
heartened by her friendliness, listened, at first doubtfully, 
then with nodding heads, and finally would say, “Yes, we 
will come to hear your missionary tell more about the 
Jesus doctrine.” 

And so the new Church was filled with eager listeners; 
but it was not the preacher’s eloquence that brought them 
there, but the homely preaching of Grandmother Ling. 

The weather grew colder and colder, but the old woman 
would not cease her efforts, though the missionaries often 
urged her to rest. At last, one day, the deadly pneumonia, 
brought on by exposure, seized her feeble old lungs, and 
grandmother could speak no more to her little flock of 
listeners. 

The missionary had medical training, and as he listened 
to the old woman’s labored breathing his face grew very 
grave. 

“Shall I be better soon ?” she whispered, as he stood be¬ 
side her. 

“Grandmother,” he said tenderly, “I have to tell you 
something that is very hard for me to say. I have let you 
leave your home and friends and come here among strang¬ 
ers to help me; and a wonderful help you have been! But 
you have worked so hard that your strength is all gone; 


JUST LIKE A MISSIONARY 


237 


and now you can never go home again to your little house 
or see your friends any more on earth.” 

'‘Do you mean,” said she, with sparkling eyes, “that I 
am going to die here, away from home?” 

“Yes, grandmother, I am afraid you are,” he said sor¬ 
rowfully. 

“But, oh, what happiness!” whispered the old woman, 
her face aglow. “I always wanted to be a foreign mission¬ 
ary, and now the dear Lord is going to let me lay down 
my life for Him here, away from home, just as the 
missionaries do. To think He would honor me so!” 

Grandmother Ling sleeps in a strange town, away from 
the graves of all her ancestors. But many people bless 
her memory, and are very sure that she was really and 
truly “just like a missionary.” 


THE CASTE OF SEETAMMA 


“Is John coming this evening?” inquired Seetamma, 
shyly hanging back as the other little girls filed out of 
school. 

Deena, the young Christian woman who taught in the 
Mission school for high caste girls in Mangalagiri, looked 
questioningly at Seetamma’s sweet, earnest face. The 
little girl was about fourteen; she had worn for many 
years the one coarse garment of a widow. Beside the 
smooth cheeks no jewels ever dangled, and on the slender 
arms no bracelets ever shone. Yet the charm and grace 
of the child were such that no one missed the jewels who 
looked at her bright eyes and sparkling smile. 

“You are fond of my brother-in-law, are you not, See¬ 
tamma ?” asked Deena. 

“Oh, yes,” replied Seetamma, glowing with earnestness. 
“At first, you know, I thought he was beneath me, because 
I was a Brahman and he an outcaste—pardon me, dear 
Deena!” she added quickly, remembering that her beloved 
teacher, as well as Deena’s husband, Joshua, was also of 
the outcaste people. “But then I found out how much 
more he knew than I did; and then he was so very kind 
to me—and you know, at home nobody is good to me, 
because I am a widow.” 

A shadow fell across the radiant face, but only for a 
moment. When she was in the school among the other 
girls, Seetamma often forgot the drudgery that awaited 
her when she went home. Her husband had died long 
ago, before she could remember him, and the child-widow 
had from that time been a drudge and slave in the house 
of her mother-in-law. 


238 


THE CASTE OF SEETAMMA 


239 


“You knew that made no difference to us, Seetamma 
dear,” said Deena gently. 

“Yes, I found that out, and wondered at it greatly,” 
said Seetamma. “It was only when I learned to know that 
it was because you and your husband and his brother 
were Christians that I could understand it. Ah, there is 
John!” she cried out suddenly as a shadow fell across the 
veranda. John was approaching rapidly. 

Seetamma would have dashed out to meet him, but 
Deena laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. 

“Softly, Seetamma! Remember you are growing up and 
must learn to be a woman. Come, we will go out together 
to meet John.” 

On the following Sabbath, which John spent at the 
home of his brother Joshua and sister-in-law Deena, See¬ 
tamma also was there for a time, a happy little guest. 
The Christian high-school boy had for the last two years 
been an object of vast admiration to the little Brahman 
widow, and she always sought permission to be in Deena’s 
home at the time of his visits. Indeed, at other times as 
well she spent every hour there which she could snatch 
from her drudgery, for Deena had become like an elder 
sister to her. 

“I have been telling Seetamma,” said John to Deena 
that Sunday evening, “that it would be a fine thing for 
her if she would come to Guntur and study in the Stall 
School for Girls. She is bright and eager to learn, and 
even if she does not become a Christian, she could be 
prepared for teaching, and get away from the dreary life 
she leads.” 

“Be careful, John!” warned his sister-in-law. “See- 
tamma’s people are Brahmans, and I often wonder that she 
is allowed to come here as she does. If they were to accuse 
us of tempting her away from them, Joshua and I might 
not be able to stay in Mangalagiri. Certainly I could not 


240 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


go on teaching in the Girls’ School, for other high-caste 
parents would be afraid to send their daughters there.” 

“I do not think Seetamma will be long contented where 
she is, whether we say anything to her or not,” replied 
John. “She is too full of life and energy, and will break 
away sooner or later. I am only trying to guide her into 
a safe path when she does make up her mind to go.” 

* * * * 

“Open the gate! Take us to the doctor-lady! Seetamma 
is here! We want to get Seetamma! What have you done 
with her ? Where is she ?” 

The little knot of excited Hindus pressed about the 
hospital gate in loud excitement. The attendant hastened 
to call the “doctor-lady.” 

Doctor Kugler came out serenely to face the noisy 
group, as calm as though she were welcoming them to an 
afternoon tea. 

“Yes,” she replied to their insistent demands, “a little 
girl is here who says her name is Seetamma, and she 
came from Mangalagiri to study in our school and learn 
to be a teacher.” 

“She is defiled! You have bewitched her!” shouted the 
angry relatives. “You dare not keep her! She has run 
away, and must go back with us to her mother-in-law and 
be well whipped for her disobedience.” 

A little spark of fire gleamed in the doctor-lady’s calm 
eyes. 

“She is not defiled, as you say,” she answered. “I have 
kept her from doing anything that would break her caste; 
she has not eaten or slept with any of another caste, nor 
taken food prepared in their way. You must know we 
do not accept every runaway girl who comes to us, and 
make her a teacher. Oh, no! We must have only the 
best for that. So I have kept her caste unbroken for fear 
after all she might change her mind and then you would 


THE CASTE OF SEETAMMA 


241 


not take her back. I shall certainly not keep her unless 
I find she is really in earnest and worthy to be one of 
our teachers.” 

The lofty tone of the doctor-lady was so different from 
what they expected that the noisy relatives stood staring. 
Seetamma perhaps not worthy to be a teacher? And she 
might be sent back to them as not fit to be kept at school ? 
That was a new idea. 

Then the attendant, to whom Doctor Kugler had whis¬ 
pered an order, came bringing the little Brahman widow 
to the gate. At sight of her the noise arose again. 

“Wicked girl, to run away! Would you come to the 
Christian school and break your caste? We will all go 
and drown ourselves in the well if you do such a thing! 
Come, you are going back with us at once!” 

Seetamma stood calmly till the noise subsided. She 
never took her anxious eyes from the face of the doctor- 
lady. 

“Seetamma,” said Doctor Kugler, very quietly, “are 
you ready to go back with your people? And will you 
tell them that you have not broken caste?” 

“Doctor-lady,” said Seetamma, still never glancing 
toward her clamorous kinsfolk, “I came here to be a 
teacher. My caste has brought me no joy, and though 
it is not yet broken, I care not how soon it is. Will you 
send me back to be beaten by my mother-in-law?” 

“You are quite decided, Seetamma, that you will be a 
teacher?” insisted the doctor. “It is a long, tedious course 
of study, and it is not play to teach a village school. Be¬ 
sides, your people will cast you out if you stay.” 

“I will stay!” declared Seetamma, with such decision 
in her voice that there was hardly a murmur from the 
relatives when Doctor Kugler called the attendant to shut 
the gate. 


242 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Six years have passed, and the home of the Reverend 
and Mrs. McCauley is lighted up for their regular Friday 
evening “at home” to their friends, both Indian and 
American. 

Into the midst of the little social group come a young 
man and woman, evidently bride and groom. 

“It is John and Seetamma,” exclaims Mrs. McCauley 
“What a fine couple they make, and how happy they 
look!” 

“Yes,” admitted John later in the evening, in a quiet 
chat with his hostess, “no girl was ever so charming to 
me as Seetamma, even when she was but twelve years 
old and wrapped in her widow’s garb. I went away, you 
know, to college, after she came to Guntur to school; 
but all the time I kept thinking of her, and what a splen¬ 
did woman she would make. Then I came back, and she 
was not a little girl any more, but a lovely woman of 
twenty. I wished, oh, so much, to have her for my wife, 
but she was a Brahman and I an outcaste! How could 
I ask for her?” 

“Just as if it had not been he,” put in Seetamma, “who 
taught me that we are all the same in God’s sight! After 
I was baptized I knew no caste any more. And John was 
always wiser and better than I; and it was he who taught 
me what a Christian is; so I think he belongs to the only 
real caste there is—the caste we both belong to.” 

“And that?” questioned the missionary softly. 

“The caste,” said Seetamma, “of the children of God.” 

And down the lighted path they went together, show¬ 
ered by good wishes from all the guests; not with John 
walking ahead and Seetamma behind, as they would have 
done if they had been a Hindu couple, but side by side, 
with fingers interlocked, like a pair of happy children. 
And the doctor-lady looked after them with a smile. 


A PIE FOR MISS HELEN 


John Little Crow and Thomas Blue Dog were alone 
in the big bakery of the Indian school. It was five years 
since they had been taken from the wretched huts on 
the reservation where their families lived, and brought 
to this great building to live. 

At first they had thought it was “big medicine” when 
a button was pushed and dozens of twinkling lights ap¬ 
peared; or when the great machines in the laundry swal¬ 
lowed bushels of soiled clothes and turned them out again 
spotlessly clean. 

But the thing they liked best was the bakery, which 
always smelled so good; it was such fun to help push the 
white loaves into the big oven and take them out again, 
large and fragrant and brown. 

They had wanted to learn the baker’s trade; and now 
they had become such good helpers to Mr. Darrow, the 
head baker, that he often left them alone to take out a 
baking, or even to mix up a batch themselves. 

Today he had been gone an unusually long while. The 
last of the bread was out, and they had no orders to bake 
anything else; but the oven was still hot and they were 
waiting to see if he would have anything more for them 
to do. 

“I like Miss Helen,” John confided presently to Thomas 
Blue Dog. “She smiles so pleasant! It is good of her that 
she comes all this long way from her home to teach us.” 

Miss Helen was the newest teacher, and very popular 
in the school. 

“Why do we not make her a present?” said Thomas, 
fingering a big rolling-pin. 


243 




244 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“A present ?” asked John Little Crow. 

“Big chiefs, 1 ” said Thomas, “always give presents to 
people they like—to all their friends. My grandfather 
went once to a great potlatch (feast), and there the chief 
gave many hundreds of blankets and a whole herd of 
ponies to the people who came.” 

“But we have no blankets or ponies,” objected John. 

“Foolish boy!” said Thomas. “Miss Helen does not 
want blankets, and perhaps she would be afraid to ride 
on a pony. But she likes pie!” 

“Pie?” said John in amazement. 

“A little pie,” repeated Thomas; “a cherry pie, all for 
herself. Look!” and he opened a closet door and showed 
the wondering John a plate on which lay several handfuls 
of cherries. 

“I helped to pick some this morning,” he said, “and 
Mr. Brown gave me these for myself. I thought I would 
save them; and now, if you will help, we can make Miss 
Helen a pie.” 

“Good!” said John. “We will begin now.” 

“Get the flour,” commanded Thomas. “Measure out 

“How much?” asked John, waiting with scoop in hand. 

“Wait till I think,” said the puzzled Thomas. “We 
make a hundred and seventy-five pies for the whole 
school; and we use-” 

Out came pencil and paper, and Thomas was soon deep 
in calculations. John had no paper, but he began to figure 
industriously on the under side of the table. 

“And lard,” said Thomas. John’s pencil set down like¬ 
wise the number of pounds of lard required for a baking 
of pies for the whole school, and then began to divide by 
a hundred and seventy-five. They knew how to bake for 
a great many people, but neither of them knew how to 
make one pie. 



A PIE FOR MISS HELEN 245 

"I have so much,” at last said Thomas, and proceeded 
to read the quantities he had figured out. 

“That is wrong,” declared John. “I have it this way; 
and you know I was always better at arithmetic than 
you.” 

“I don’t care,” said Thomas, “I was the one that 
thought of making the pie.” 

“I’m not going to let Miss Helen get any pie that isn’t 
made right,” asserted John vigorously. 

About five minutes later Mr. Darrow walked in, to find 
his two assistants locked in battle on the floor. 

“Boys! boys! What in the world does this mean?” 
exclaimed the good-natured baker. “John! Thomas! What 
do you think you are doing?” 

Two shame-faced Indian boys disentangled themselves 
and rose from the floor. 

“We’re making a pie for Miss Helen!” explained 
Thomas sheepishly. 

The baker’s laugh rang out so loudly that the boys at 
play outside came peeping in to see what was the matter. 
The story soon spread, and by evening Miss Helen was 
receiving amused condolence from the other teachers over 
her failure to get a pie. 

For some days Thomas and John went about looking 
very foolish. The other boys teased them unmercifully, 
and even the girls would laugh when they saw them, and 
make believe to be pinching the edges of a pie. 

Mr. Darrow found them so depressed that the work 
began to suffer. One day he slyly remarked, “This measure 
holds just enough flour for one pie.” 

He saw Thomas glance sideways at the measure, and 
knew he had not spoken in vain. Thomas would remember 
that measure. 

Another tree of cherries was ready for picking in a few 
days. These were to be preserved, and all the girls who 


246 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


were not busy at other tasks gathered in the dining room 
that afternoon, with several of the teachers to oversee, 
and proceeded to stone cherries. 

Thomas Blue Dog and John Little Crow seemed to have 
a great many errands to the store-room that afternoon, 
and every trip required them to pass through the dining 
room. Miss Helen noticed that as they passed each time 
they managed to take a few cherries from one of the 
baskets; but there was no rule against their helping them¬ 
selves to some fruit, and all the children were wild to 
taste it, so she said nothing. 

The cherry-seeding party had finished their work, and 
the girls were gathering up the empty baskets, when 
Thomas Blue Dog came stalking proudly in from the 
bakery, with John a little way behind him. 

In both hands Thomas bore with care something on a 
plate that steamed from under its clean napkin, and 
smelled—oh, so good! 

Straight up to Miss Helen he marched and put the 
precious article in her hands. 

“Mr. Darrow helped us—and we didn’t fight this 
time!” he managed to say, and then fled, overcome with 
bashfulness. 

The girls all came crowding around to lift the napkin; 
and out to the bakery floated their eager voices, crying, 
“It’s a pie! A cherry pie for Miss Helen!” 


THE BLACK BAND 


Janak, the Hindu fakir, sat by the wayside under a tree, 
meditating. That was the business of his life; and the 
people who went by, seeing him so deep in thought that he 
did not look up at the sound of their footsteps, would say 
admiringly, “What a holy man he is!” 

There was little else about Janak to admire. His body 
was smeared with ashes; his hair was so matted that no 
power on earth could have forced a comb through it; his 
finger nails were long and curving, like the claws of an 
enormous bird; but all these things are thought to be the 
marks of a holy life by the people of India. 

“How little he cares for comfort or ease!” said the 
passer-by. “And look at the scars in his cheeks and on 
his shoulders! How he must have tortured himself, and 
how much merit he must have gained from the gods!” 

And there were the ugly marks on his cheeks, which 
made him look so fierce. They and the scars on his shoul¬ 
ders were the marks of the time when he had sought to 
please his gods, as many worshipers in India do, by 
thrusting sharp spikes into his flesh as he prayed. Often 
he had gone about with a long iron spike run completely 
through both cheeks, from side to side of his face. This 
is thought to be very pleasing to the cruel gods of India. 

But now Janak was growing old, and he sought no 
longer to gain merit by such tortures. They had not made 
him any happier; nor had he found that it gave him any 
satisfaction to make long pilgrimages lying on the ground 
and rolling over and over all the way. 

Now he was content to sit beneath a tree all day long, 
almost believing, as the people did, that he was thinking 
247 








248 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


wonderful and holy thoughts, when he was really dozing 
in the shade. 

But to Ratnam, his little chela , or disciple, Janakwas 
the holiest man in all the world. 

“If I did not look after the master,” said he to himself, 
“he would forget to eat. He is so busy with his wonder¬ 
ful thoughts and holy prayers that he scarcely listens 
sometimes when I come to tell him that the sun is low 
and it is time to have supper.” 

Then Ratnam would take the begging bowl that lay 
at Janak’s side and would stand close by the road; and 
when people saw the holy man they would drop some 
money or food in the bowl. 

Some days there was very little, and then Ratnam did 
without so that his master might have more. 

“It is no more than right,” he would say to himself. 
“Were not my parents dead in the famine, and I myself 
starving, when Janak found me and made me his chela? 
I would starve for him any day!” 

To do the old man justice, it was not selfishness that 
made him eat RatnanTs share as well as his own. 

“I feasted well, master, while you were meditating,” 
Ratnam would say. “I am only ashamed that, greedy as I 
was, I left so little for you!” 

And Janak would smile and finish all that was in the 
bowl. 

Today Janak was wider awake than usual. There had 
been so little to eat this time that he was not comfortable 
enough to doze as usual. He tried in vain to fix his mind 
on his prayers, and presently a puff of hot wind brought 
a bit of white paper fluttering to his feet. 

He reached out his hand idly and picked it up. It was 
in his own language, and he read a few words. Strange 
words they were; and when he had grasped a little of 


THE BLACK BAND 


249 


their meaning he began at the beginning and read both 
sides of the leaf. 

“Ratnam, come here!” he called presently, and Ratnam, 
much surprised at being noticed, hurried to his master’s 
side. 

“This,” said Janak, “is the story of a very holy man, 
Ratnam. I do not know where He lived, but He was 
much holier than I or thou, for out of a few loaves and 
fishes, by His prayers, He made food enough for five 
thousand people. Listen, while I read it to thee!” 

When they had read every syllable on the sheet Rat¬ 
nam began to search for more. In a short time he had 
gathered up six torn leaves of a pocket copy of Matthew’s 
Gospel. It was not all there, but there were several more 
miracles, part of the Sermon on the Mount, and one page 
that told how Christ was betrayed and crucified. 

Janak’s wonder grew as he read. 

! “I have never heard anything like this,” he said. “Not 
Rama, not Krishna, not any of our divine ones was like 
this Yesu. I must find someone who can tell me more of 
Him!” 

After that Janak did not do much meditating under the 
tree. He went to seek somebody who could tell him how 
to be a follower of Yesu. 

But after all, it was Ratnam who found the first one. 

“My master,” he said one day, hurrying to Janak in 
great excitement, “I have found an Englishman who says 
he knows about Yesu!” 

Herbert Wilcox, the English tourist, whom Ratnam 
had captured, was half amused and scarcely at his ease 
when called upon to tell what he knew about the life of 
Christ. He had not been such a student of the Bible as 
made it easy for him to answer the eager questions of 
Janak and Ratnam. 


250 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Yes, it’s all true,” he assured them. “Yes, He did 
wonderful things. He was the best man that ever lived. 
Yes, He died on the cross, as the book says.” 

That was about all they could get from him. After he 
had passed on, Ratnam, whose eyes were also alert, said 
to his master, “Did you see the black band he wore on 
his arm?” 

“Yes,” said Janak. “I have seen men wear those before. 
I think that must be the mark of a Christian—that is what 
he said he was, didn’t he? I will be a Christian, too, and 
wear a black band on my arm. Then when I meet other 
Christians we shall know each other.” 

It was not long till Ratnam found a fragment of a torn 
black veil, and soon he and Janak were wearing what they 
believed to be the badge of a Christian. 

“There are not many Christians about here,” he com¬ 
plained one day to Ratnam. “Let us seek a village where 
there are more.” So from place to place they wandered 
always asking for people who were Christians. 

“There’s the queerest old fakir out here, Doctor Pres¬ 
cott,” said a young missionary, just before the service 
which he and the senior missionary were about to con¬ 
duct in the little chapel of a Christian village. “He is 
asking for Christians. Shall I tell him to come in?” 

And so Janak heard his first sermon; and after the 
service Doctor Prescott came to talk with him. 

“Yes, I, too, am a Christian,” said Janak, proudly point¬ 
ing to the bands on his arm and Ratnam’s. 

It took some questioning to get at the truth, and some 
time to explain to Janak that the black band was not a 
mark of Christian faith. 

“It is a sign that men wear,” at length said Doctor 
Prescott, “which shows that someone they love has died.” 


THE BLACK BAND 


251 


Janak’s face brightened; then he answered, “But I read 
in the book that my Loved One has died, so I shall wear 
it in memory of Him.” 

One Easter morning Janak stood before Doctor Pres¬ 
cott a different man. His hair had been cut, his long nails 
trimmed, and the dirt, which, he had learned was not a 
sign of holiness, was washed away. In a clean white 
garment he presented himself for baptism, with Ratnam, 
also white-robed and beaming, and for the first time the 
black bands were gone from their arms. 

“My Loved One died, it is true,” he said to the mission¬ 
ary. “But now I know He is raised from the dead, and 
lives forever. We will be His chelas, Ratnam and I.” 

And Doctor Prescott, with a glad heart, welcomed them 
to the ranks of the risen Master’s true disciples. 


THE INDIANS AUNT SALLIE SAW 


Long, loud and shrill rose a terrible shriek from the 
tent in the back yard. 

Aunt Sallie jumped. She had come to visit Dick and 
Dick’s father and mother, and she had arrived just twelve 
hours ago. 

Mother only smiled. In a moment the tent flap was 
pushed open and a wonderfully feathered head appeared, 
followed by a wriggling body in a brand new “Indian 
suit.” 

“Hello, Aunt Sallie! Did you hear my war-whoop?” 
inquired Dick. “Were you scared?” 

“A little,” confessed Aunt Sallie. 

“I guess you aren’t used to Indians, are yo\i?” asked 
Dick, coming across the lawn and settling himself at her 
feet on the steps. 

“I have heard a much louder whoop than that from real 
Indians,” replied his aunt. 

“When? Where? O auntie, tell me about it!” cried 
Dick in great excitement. 

“When I was a girl,” began Aunt Sallie, “my father 
lived for some years in Carlisle-” 

“Oh, that’s where the Indian school is!” said Dick, in 
disappointment. “I didn’t mean tame Indians.” 

“I saw the first Indians that were ever brought there, 
fresh from the reservation,” said Aunt Sallie. “They were 
anything but tame, as you would think if you had seen 
them.” 

“Had they war paint on?” Dick brightened perceptibly. 
“Begin at the very beginning!” 

252 




THE INDIANS AUNT SALLIE SAW 


253 


“For some time,” said his aunt, “the people of the town 
had known that the Government was going to start a 
school for Indians in Carlisle. One day the news ran 
from house to house, ‘The Indians have come!’ 

“Of course, we were all very curious to see them; so 
presently quite a crowd gathered at the buildings. These 
were not the present buildings of the school, but what 
were known as the Carlisle Barracks. They were two- 
story houses with balconies across the upper story. They 
were quite old—in fact, it was said that they were built 
about 1812.” 

“When we had the war-1 know. Go on!” breathed 

Dick impatiently. 

“The Indian girls were in the lower story of one of the 
barracks houses,” resumed Aunt Sallie, “and the boys in 
the upper story. Seeing the curious crowd of townspeople, 
Captain Pratt, who had charge of the Indians, called to 
the boys to come out on the balcony. 

“Presently we heard a stealthy rustling, but could see 
nothing at all. Our eyes were lifted above the balcony rail. 
No boys appeared. Suddenly a voice cried, ‘Oh, look! 
Look at the floor V 

“What do you think those Indian boys were doing? 
They were not going to come out boldly in the open, 
among a crowd of strange pale faces. That was not their 
way! So they lay down flat on their chests, as though they 
were hiding among dead leaves and grasses, and came 
wriggling out like snakes across the balcony floor to peep 
at us between the floor and the railing. 

“I think I never saw a more startling sight. Their hair 
was long and tangled; their eyes glared with suspicion, 
and across their foreheads and on their high cheek bones 
were brilliant streaks of paint—yellow, red and blue. They 
glowered at us beneath the railing like wild animals in a 
cage.” 



254 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Dick drew a long sigh of delight. 

“Wish I could have seen ’em!” he declared. 

“Then Captain Pratt spoke to them,” went on Aunt 
Sallie, “and told them that we were friends who had come 
to 'welcome them to Carlisle, and asked them to come down 
and let us see that they trusted the white men and were 
not afraid. 

“Then we saw a still odder sight. The door of the bar¬ 
racks stood open—the girls were in hiding on the lower 
story, too timid even to peep out—and we could see 
plainly the staircase leading from the upper story. As 
we watched, a pair of legs appeared, then a body, and 
finally'a head with long strings of black hair. 

“The Indian boys had never seen a staircase; but they 
were used to scrambling up and down cliffs, and they 
thought the stairway was some new kind of canyon. So 
they were sliding down backward, holding on to the 
steps for dear life with hands and feet! Everyone backed 
down in this way, then picked himself up and came out 
among us. 

“Up there on the balcony they had looked both sullen 
and stupid, but now we were to see a livelier side. When 
they were all gathered in the midst of the crowd, sud¬ 
denly they gave the most tremendous war whoop you 
could possibly imagine and went dashing into the crowd 
in every direction. You may guess how we screamed and 
scattered! 

“When they w~ere through the crowd and out on the 
other side they turned around and stood laughing as if 
their sides would split. They had scared the palefaces, 
and they enjoyed the joke just as much as any other 
boys.” 

“Tell some more!” said Dick. “Did they always wear 
war-paint ?” 


THE INDIANS AUNT SALLIE SAW 


255 


“No, indeed,” said Aunt Sallie. “One of the first things 
Captain Pratt did was to get them all into civilized dress. 
They rather liked the new clothing, but there was almost 
a riot when the barber came to cut their long hair.” 

“Of course,” sympathized Dick, “they didn’t want to 
lose their scalp-locks! Maybe they thought the barber was 
going to scalp them.” 

“Then they had to be taught to work,” said Aunt Sallie. 
“That wasn’t at all to their taste, and Captain Pratt some¬ 
times found it hard to make them do things. 

“I remember one day some of us were out at the bar¬ 
racks when he was trying to get them to remove three old 
cannon that stood on the grounds and put them in a shed 
some distance away. 

“He came out and gave a peculiar whistle, and the boys 
came swarming to see what he wanted. There were some 
grunts of disapproval when he pointed to the cannon and 
then to the shed, but they took hold all together, and soon 
had the first one rolled, aw^ay. 

“There was some little delay in getting the cannon 
placed in the shed, and when Captain Pratt came out 
again the swarm of boys had melted away as by magic. 
Again he whistled, but only about half of them came to 
haul the second cannon, which they did with some diffi¬ 
culty. 

“The third whistle brought only three or four of the 
boys, and we could see—as the captain was supposed not 
to—the boys hiding behind sheds and behind trees all 
over the grounds, peeping out at the cannon, but making 
no move to help.” 

“How did he get it in?” asked Dick. 

“I don’t , know, for I couldn’t stay to see,” said Aunt 
Sallie, “but I know he taught them to work in time, for 
they became skillful in various kinds of trades, and made 
very good workmen.” 


256 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Didn’t they ever go back to see their fathers and moth¬ 
ers ?” asked Dick. 

“Oh, yes; but not very often while they lived at the 
school, because it was such a long journey,” replied Aunt 
Sallie. “But their people used to come and see them. 
Indian visitors were a common sight in Carlisle; many 
of the big chiefs came to visit the school, and they were 
gorgeous in appearance. No matter how hot the weather, 
they always wore their blankets. I have seen a chief 
stalking along the street on a sweltering day, wrapped in 
his blanket to the chin, and fanning himself with a 
feather.” 

Dick laughed heartily. 

“Didn’t they do anything else but work and study?” he 
asked presently. 

“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Sallie. “They played all sorts of 
games. Don’t you know how famous the Carlisle In¬ 
dians have become as athletes? 

“After we had been away from Carlisle for some years 
I went back there on a visit, and attended a Sunday ser¬ 
vice at the school. It was most interesting. 

“First came the orchestra—about twenty-five or thirty 
instruments, each carried and played by an Indian boy. 
It was much sweeter music than war whoops, I can tell 
you! 

“Then I heard a tramp, tramp, tramp, regular as clock¬ 
work, and here came marching four hundred Indian boys, 
clean and well dressed, keeping perfect step as they filed 
into the chapel. 

“I never saw so attentive an audience. Indians never 
whisper or laugh in a public gathering, much less in 
church. Even when we had lived in Carlisle, when some 
of the Indian boys came to our Sunday school, untrained 
as they were then, the teachers never had any trouble with 


THE INDIANS AUNT SALLIE SAW 


257 


them. They would sit like statues all through the lesson, 
and nobody could make them talk or smile.” 

Dick squirmed slightly, and changed the subject. 

C T bet their people didn’t know them when they came 
home,” he said. “But what I would rather see would be 
the real, wild Indians with their painted faces, and hear 
a truly war whoop! Couldn’t you do one, Aunt Sallie ?” 





HOW CARMELA SPENT THE HOLIDAYS 


The Christmas exercises were over in the little hall of 
the city mission. The tree was stripped of its gifts and 
the happy children had gone home to repeat in dark 
tenements the songs they had learned and show their toys 
and candy. 

Sister Martha stood in the deserted room with Pastor 
Hopewell and looked after the last smiling group with 
tired but joyful eyes. The deaconess had worked hard 
to prepare and distribute the little treat, and there had 
been plenty for every child who came, and a few toys 
left over. 

“It will not do to give them too much at once,” she 
wisely said. “They will enjoy the toys more if they have 
just a few at a time.” 

Now she was about to put away the remainder for 
times of emergency, when some of the mission children 
might be sick, or a baby cry in Sunday school and refuse 
to be quieted without a dolly to hold or a toy horse to 
examine. 

“Hello!” cried Mr. Hopewell suddenly. “Who’s at the 
door ? Come in, come in!” 

The big eyes in the thin little face were fixed on the 
tree, still glistening in its tinsel. 

“Is this the place,” breathed a shy little voice, “where 
Minna Meyer got her doll?” 

“Yes, yes,” said the pastor heartily. “Will you come in 
and see our tree?” 

“May I bring my family along?” questioned Carmela 
anxiously. 


258 


HOW CARMELA SPENT THE HOLIDAYS 


259 


As soon as permission was given she called back into 
the alley beside the mission, “Come on, Martina! Come, 
Lisa! Come, Netta! And bring the baby with you!” 

Such a shivering little procession as filed in at the door! 
Five small Italian girls with such wide eyes and such little, 
thin legs! Only the baby had a head-covering—a man’s 
old cap—and was wrapped in a ragged shawl. The rest 
wore shoes with hardly enough sole to keep them on their 
feet; no stockings; and for all the rest of their clothing 
just a calico dress apiece. And it was the twenty-fifth of 
December! 

Sister Martha caught her breath sharply as she laid her 
hand on Carmela’s arm and felt that there was nothing 
but the shivering little shoulder under the calico sleeve. 

“Oh, Mr. Hopewell,” she whispered. “Please keep them 
busy with these toys, while I look for some clothing for 
them.” 

An hour later five happy little girls were going home, 
feeling very different from the ones who had hidden in 
the alley. Everyone had stockings on, and shoes with 
patches, but without holes. Each wore warm underclothing 
and some kind of a shawl, cape or coat. 

“Mine is the best,” said Martina proudly. “It has 
pockets in it to keep my hands warm. If it wasn’t too big, 
I’d give it to the baby.” 

“Oh, look,” said Carmela, “the baby’s hood has strings 
to it with mittens on the end! Now her fingers won’t get 
cold.” Carmela had hidden her scanty braids under a 
woolen “fascinator,” and each of the others had a warm 
hood. 

Such a wonderful Christmas! Nice things for every 
one of them to wear, and apples and cakes and oranges; 
and dolls for the little ones, with a brush and comb for 
Carmela. And tomorrow the kind lady was coming to see 
them. 


260 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


Sister Martha was used to the sad sights of the tene¬ 
ments, but she shivered more than once on her visit to 
Carmela’s home next day. 

Through narrow streets, dirty and slippery, where the 
snow fell only to be trampled into filth; up long 
flights of rickety stairs, dark as pitch, where dogs and 
children got under foot, and garbage pails and bundles of 
rags blocked the way; up into a cheerless garret, where 
there was scarcely a whole pane of glass, where a handful 
of coals smoked sullenly in a worn-out cookstove, and a 
drunken father sat by the table with his bottle of whisky 
beside him—this was where the motherless Carmela kept 
her little “family.” 

In the front room, which served as parlor and kitchen, 
there was a tattered mattress on the floor, which, Carmela 
explained, was “father’s bed.” The second room was 
unlighted and without ventilation, except such as came 
through an opening—too small to be called a window— 
leading into the air shaft that ran from top to bottom of 
the big building and let in nothing but cold. 

“And where are your beds?” asked Sister Martha, when 
the girls told her that this was their sleeping room. 

“Our beds?” said Martina, surprised. “Why, we never 
had no beds! We sleep on the floor.” 

“O Martina,” said Carmela reproachfully, “don’t forget 
the nice piece of old carpet Mis’ Maloney give us last 
winter! Why, it covers all of us!” she said, displaying 
the tattered piece of rag carpet proudly. “It’s covers, if 
it isn’t a bed,” she added. 

Beds were not plentiful at the Mission, and Sister Mar¬ 
tha had none stored away with her toys and second hand 
garments. But she determined Carmela’s family should 
have some. She left the tenement with a promise from 
Carmela that the children would come in the evenings to 
the Bible school at the Mission, 


HOW CARMELA SPENT THE HOLIDAYS 261 

For three nights Carmela and her sisters sat faithfully 
on the low-backed benches and heard about Christmas and 
the Christ-child, about Samuel and Moses and David. 
Then they vanished—on the very night after Sister Mar¬ 
tha had succeeded in getting a man to carry two cheap 
mattresses up the rickety stairs to the cheerless back room. 

“I am really disappointed/' she said to Pastor Hopewell, 
when a week had passed and there were no further signs 
of Carmela’s little flock. “The oldest girl seemed interested, 
and I thought gratitude at least would bring them for a 
while." 

“Have patience!" said Mr. Hopewell. “Perhaps they 
will come back." 

And that very night they did come back; not only Car¬ 
mela and Martina and the other three, but two little neigh¬ 
bors as well. 

“Where have you been, Carmela?" asked Sister Martha. 
“We thought you had forgotten us." 

“Oh, no!" said Carmela shocked. “How could we for¬ 
get, when we had our beds and all the nice things? We 

were keeping-" She stopped and fidgeted with the 

fringe of her shawl. 

“Yes?" said Sister Martha encouragingly. 

“Well," said Carmela at last, “you know how people 
say they keep the holidays after Christmas—they do just 
the nicest things they know for a whole week. A girl told 
me about it once; her sister worked for rich people." 

“And you were keeping your holidays ?" inquired Sister 
Martha. “What nice things did you do?" 

“You won’t laugh?" said Carmela appealingly. “And 
you won’t be mad? I know we promised to come to the 
meetings, and we do like them; but every evening, when 
I said to my family ‘How shall we keep our holidays to¬ 
night ?’ they would look at those grand beds, and everyone 



262 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


would say, ‘Let’s go to bed!’ You see,” faltered Carmela, 
“we never had any beds before, and we just couldn’t leave 
them. The nicest thing we could find to do was just to go 
to bed. But now we’re coming every evening,” she added 
assuringly. 

And Sister Martha’s eyes were moist about the lashes 
as she turned away to find Mr. Hopewell and tell him how 
Carmela and her “family” had spent their Christmas holi¬ 
days. 


TRUE THOMAS 

A Story of the Philippines 

“There are new scholars come, teacher/’ announced 
Felipe, putting his head into the room where Miss Archer 
sat. 

“New scholars!” exclaimed the teacher of the mission 
school, looking up. “How am I to take new scholars when 
the building is full now ?” 

“They come very far,” said Felipe. “They are of a tribe 
that is very wild, living away up in the mountains. They 
know nothing at all. But they heard of this school and 
how much all the scholars learn, and that the teacher 
lady is very kind; and they walk three, four, maybe five 
days, to come to our school.” 

Miss Archer hastened out to see the newcomers. They 
were truly not attractive; their clothing was scanty and 
very much soiled and torn; their hair was matted, and 
their feet were bleeding from the stones and briers on 
the mountainside. 

There were seven of them—three boys and four girls; 
the oldest probably about ten years old, the youngest not 
more than six. 

“How did your parents let you come so far?” asked 
Miss Archer. The little ones could not understand, but 
Felipe acted as interpreter. 

“Our parents,” replied the oldest boy, “did not care at 
all. They were very glad to have us come and learn at 
this fine place,” he added with a coaxing smile. Miss 
Archer found it hard to resist. 

“But I have no room for you here,” she said. 

263 



264 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


“Teacher/’ said Felipe, “the boys and girls want them 
to stay.” Sure enough all the school children were gather¬ 
ing around, nodding their heads and pointing to the 
strangers. 

“But where can they sleep?” asked Miss Archer. 

“We can make beds on the floor,” said Felipe. “We 
will share our blankets with them.” 

“But there is nothing to feed them with,” said the per¬ 
plexed teacher. 

“Each of us will give them a little,” said Felipe, after 
consulting with some of the others. 

“Really, Felipe,” said the teacher, “I’m afraid I cannot 
allow that. Our rations are not more now than each of 
you needs in order to keep healthy and strong; 
and unless the people at home in America allow me more 
money to carry on the school, I do not see how I can take 
in seven more pupils.” 

There was a buzz of discussion among the children; 
then Felipe said: “They say that if you will let the chil¬ 
dren stay we will do the washing; you pay every week to 
have that done, and if we could save that money it would 
buy enough to feed them. The boys will wash the clothes 
and the girls will iron them. Please let these children stay, 
teacher! They came so far to go to school!” 

After that there was nothing to do but to let the seven 
stay. Miss Archer sent the older children to wash the 
strangers and comb their tangled hair. The children from 
the surrounding country had mostly names borrowed from 
the Spanish, but these little mountaineers had native 
names which proved impossible for Miss Archer to pro¬ 
nounce. At last she gave it up in despair. 

“I shall call the boys Thomas, John and Henry,” she 
said. “The girls will be Mary, Sarah, Ruth and Grace.” 

The little strangers had many bad habits to unlearn. 
They had never been taught that it was wrong to tell what 


TRUE THOMAS 


265 


was not true or to take what did not belong to them. Miss 
Archer was very patient with them, for she knew that they 
had never learned any better; but sometimes they tried 
her patience very sorely. 

Thomas, as she had named the oldest boy, was par¬ 
ticularly hard to teach. He was the leader of the three 
boys, and they, and sometimes the girls as well, were 
found in mischief which it was plain that Thomas had 
planned. 

He was always as innocent as a kitten washing its face 
after drinking out of the cream pitcher. 

“No, teacher, no!” he would say. “No take piece of 
bread from Ramon! Big bird fly down and grab it!” Or, 
“Thomas not put mouse on Margarita! Mouse run out of 
school room, jump on her back!” 

His stories were so impossible that they seldom deceived 
anyone; but Miss Archer felt that she must teach him to 
be truthful, or it would do him more harm than good to 
get an education. 

One morning the teacher came into the kitchen and 
found almost half the fish gone which had been prepared 
for breakfast. At once her suspicions flew to the little 
mountaineers. The little girls had no part in this, for it 
must have been taken in the night, and all the girls slept 
in a large room which could not be entered or left except 
through the room where Miss Archer herself slept, with 
the keys under her pillow. 

It must have been some of the boys; yet she did not 
want to accuse the new boys, for she remembered that a 
few of the older ones had not been too well trained when 
they came, and might have helped in the raid. She could 
hardly believe that three boys had eaten the fish prepared 
for the breakfast of thirty children. 

“All stand in line before me!” she said very gravely, 
when the children were ready for morning prayers. “Now, 


266 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


I am going to ask each one of you a question. Felipe, did 
you take any fish from the kitchen last night? Ramon? 
Carlo? Henry?” She went down the line calling each by 
name. 

Every boy denied it, and none with so calm a face as 
Thomas. Then Miss Archer declared, “Somebody has 
told a lie, and I am going to find out who it was! Every 
one of you stand here in line while Margarita and Dolores 
go to the boys’ dormitory and smell the beds” 

What a change swept over the faces of the guilty ones! 
How did teacher know that they had feasted on the salt 
fish and then wiped their hands on the bed clothes? 

Before the girls came back Thomas stepped from the 
line. 

“Teacher,” he said, “I stole the fish. Henry and John 
helped to eat them, but they did not take them; it was all 
my fault. Please do not punish them. I will never lie to 
you again, for you know everything.” 

And from that day Thomas did not steal, and always 
caught himself up if he started to tell what was not true. 
So changed did he become that Miss Archer took a fancy 
for calling him “True Thomas,” after a character in a 
famous old ballad; and he did his best to deserve the 
name. 

“If my work in the Philippines,” she often says, “had 
done nothing but to bring this little boy to an under¬ 
standing of truth and honesty, it would have been worth 
while. At first he tried to do right to please me; but now 
he has come to know that there is a Father in heaven who 
loves him better than I do, and who really does know 
everything. Thomas is a Christian boy now, and I have 
never been sorry that I made room in the school for my 
seven little mountaineers.” 


THE IDOL ON THE WALL 


“I am disappointed in Premabai,” said Miss Hubbard, 
putting on her sun-hat. 

“What has become of her?” asked Miss Rollins, the 
other teacher in the mission school for girls. “She went 
home for a vacation, and I haven’t seen her since.” 

“I haven’t heard a word from her,” sighed Miss Hub¬ 
bard. “She was one of the brightest girls in my class, and 
seemed so eager to become a Christian. I hope nothing 
has happened to her.” 

“You can’t tell what is going to happen, here in India,” 
said Miss Rollins. “About the time a girl begins to learn 
something and to take a real interest in her work, her 
people decide it is time for her to get married, and off 
she goes!” 

“If I only knew that Premabai hadn’t stayed away on 
purpose!” said Miss Hubbard. “It’s bad enough to have 
them kept from coming back, but it’s worse to think they 
wouldn’t care to come, after all we do to teach them 
something better than the native village life.” 

“Well, don’t worry. Perhaps Premabai will be here 
again by the time you come back from your trip,” said 
Miss Rollins, going to the door with her friend. 

The journey across the river on which Miss Hubbard 
was starting was a tour of several days. Word had come 
to the mission that several villages on the other side had 
asked for day schools, and Miss Hubbard was going over 
to see about it and to get several former pupils of the 
mission, now living across the river, to interest themselves 
in the plan. 


2 67 


268 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


The second night of her trip she was sleeping in the 
home of one of these young women, who had married a 
native Christian pastor. Soon after going to bed Miss 
Hubbard was awakened by a sound of voices debating, 
and presently her hostess came to the door, saying apol¬ 
ogetically : 

“There is a girl here, Miss Hubbard, who says she 
must see you. I did not like to disturb you, but-” 

By this time Miss Hubbard was on her feet, for she 
recognized the voice outside, which cried : 

“Teacher, dear teacher, please let me in! They will 
whip me if I am not back before they find I have been 
out.” 

“Premabai!” exclaimed Miss Hubbard. “Come in. 
child, and tell me where you have been, and why you did 
not come back to school. ,, 

“My family brought me over here, ,, said Premabai, “so 
that you could not find me. Oh, Miss Hubbard, I have 
made a dreadful mistake; but I thought I was doing 
right-■” And the little girl began to sob. 

“Sit down here, Premabai,” said the teacher, “and tell 
me all about it. What happened when you went home for 
vacation ?” 

“I was so anxious to get home,” began Premabai, “that 
I could hardly wait, because I wanted to tell my people 
all about Jesus, and how He is God over all, and the idols 
are no gods. 

“The day after I went home, I said to my mother, 

“ ‘Mother, why do you have that ugly old idol painted 
on the wall?' You see, on the wall of the western room 
there was painted a big image. I had seen it every day 
since I could remember; but it never looked so ugly and 
foolish to me as it did after I had seen the picture of the 
Good Shepherd that hangs in the school room. 

“My mother was shocked; she said: 





THE IDOL ON THE WALL 


269 


‘My daughter, do not speak such words against the 
god of the house; he will hear you, and send misfortune 
on all of us/ 

u ‘But, mother/ I said, ‘he is only some paint, put 
there with a brush; he does not hear or see, and I am not 
afraid of him/ 

“Then I tried to tell her about the true God; but she 
was very much frightened, and said we would all die of 
cholera or some other disease, if we offended the gods. So 
I kept quiet; but I never helped worship the idol, and 
every day I hated the sight of it more. 

“At last I thought to myself: 

“ ‘If I should wipe off the idol from the wall and my 
people saw that no harm came to me, they would know 
that the idols have no power/ 

“So when everyone was out watching a marriage pro¬ 
cession, I started to wash the picture from the wall. It 
came off very easily; and I thought I had done a great 
thing, and now all my people would believe in Jesus, and I 
would bring them all to be baptized. I was a very foolish 
girl, Miss Hubbard.” 

Premabai stopped to wipe away the tears; then she 
continued: 

“When my mother came in again several neighbors were 
with her. They came right into the room where the idol 
had been, and at first they looked around, as if they didn't 
know where they were. Then my mother saw what it was 
that made the room look so strange. 

“At the same moment one of the women caught sight 
of the paint-stained rag in my hand and began to scream: 

“ ‘The anger of the gods is upon us! This is what 
comes of sending your daughter to the Christian school!’ 

“Then they ran out, screaming and tearing their hair. 
My mother was so frightened she could not move, but I 


270 


MISSIONARY STORIES 


fastened the door. Soon a crowd was gathered outside; 
they could not get in, but they threw stones and mud, and 
called us terrible names. 

“When my father came home that evening they caught 
him, and beat him so badly that he was not able to walk. 
When he found out what it was all about he promised 
the people that I should never go back to the school. 

“But nobody would come into our house, because the 
god was gone from it, and it would be unlucky. The neigh¬ 
bors cried bad names whenever they saw us; and at last 
my father said: 

“ 'We must move to another village. The holidays 
are over, and the missionaries may come after Premabai, 
to see why she has not returned. We have no friends here, 
and may be attacked again if we stay. Let us move to the 
other side of the river; for it is death to us and to the 
teacher if she comes here looking for Premabai.’ 

“So we came over here; and when I knew you were 
in the village, I ran away to tell you why I did not come 
back.” 

Premabai stopped, and the tears fell fast. The teacher 
stroked her bent head very lovingly; presently she said: 

“When I first came to India, Premabai, I made the 
same mistake that you did.” 

Premabai’s head was raised, and her tearful eyes grew 
wide with astonishment. 

“Yes,” said Miss Hubbard, “let me tell you what I did. 
I thought, like you, that all we had to do was to take away 
the idols, and people would worship the true God. 

“So one day, when I was in a part of the country where 
there were many temples, I went into one, and took away 
a stone idol, so heavy that I could hardly carry it. It hap¬ 
pened that nobody saw me, and I got safely away with it 
to the house where the other missionaries were. 


THE IDOL ON THE WALL 


271 


“They were very much frightened when they saw what 
I had done. They knew that it was too dangerous to try 
to put it back; so they helped me to hide it, and we got 
away from the place as fast as possible. Nobody ever 
knew who took it, and we put it in a box and sent it away. 
My mother has it now, in her home far across the sea. 

“I had not kept a single person from believing in idols, 
and I had put all of us in great danger. Since then I have 
learned that we must begin with the hearts of the people 
and teach them first to love Jesus, and then they will give 
up the idols of their own accord.” 

Premabai had listened with breathless interest. It was a 
comfort to know that her teacher had once made the same 
mistake she had made. 

“But I can never come back to the school,” she said, 
sadly. 

“You can be a little missionary in your own home, dear 
Premabai,” said Miss Hubbard. “Your people will surely 
see how happy and kind Jesus makes His people if you 
try to follow Him. Good night now, dear child, and God 
bless you!” 

And Premabai was gone, like a little shadow slipping 
away into the darkness. 





















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